


Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

by KMWells



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aggressive Hawke, Codependency, Death, Depression, Extreme Slow Burn Romance, F/M, Family, Loss, Mage Rights, Overprotective/Overbearing Hawke, Platonic Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:24:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8199964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMWells/pseuds/KMWells
Summary: A girl thrown into the middle of a war that isn't her own, Lana has spent years protecting her apostate father from templars. Escaping the Blight on a ship headed towards Kirkwall, Lana's father grows ill and in need of healing. This leads Lana to befriend one of the most wanted mages in the city. Friendships and loyalties are tested as the war becomes more personal and Lana decides how far she's willing to go for the lives of others.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working for months on this. I've nearly got everything written, but the first chapter really stumped me. I'm not a fan of writing chapters that are basically exposition and lack any action, but they're necessary. As soon as I publish this, I'll probably want to rewrite it, but that's how it goes.

It’s no secret that mages are feared across Thedas - with the exception being, of course, Tevinter, whose policies and culture frighten many hundreds of miles away, looked down upon by most of the rest of the world. The idea that someone could kill instantly with a snap of their fingers is most likely what causes all the paranoia - it’s a fair and rather common idea, however. People often shudder at the word ‘magic’ and grow green in the face when posed with a word such as ‘apostate’ or ‘blood mage’. The thought of an abomination rampaging through someone’s quaint village, or a child finding out he’s magical by setting his mother on fire, or even a spat with a mage who could easily freeze someone - these thoughts are the sort that set people on edge.

What with all the fear-mongering, it seems like people forget the good that comes from those with magical ability. The knowledge of healing, ways to fix the injured, sick, and dying that science can’t help any further, and using magic as a sort of protection in dangerous and difficult situations shouldn’t be feared. It’s true, there are mages who would not hurt so much a fly, but of course, stories of evil mages spread much faster and wilder than those who aren’t.

It’s safe to assume that templars, whether purposefully or not, are one of the main reasons behind the widespread fear of mages. Having seen the terrible, awful, dreadful things mages are capable of, of course they’ll pass those stories on. Of course people will believe them. Who wouldn’t believe men and women donning shimmering armor with large, important looking crests embedded on them? It’s difficult to believe such righteous men and women would lie about such things - or that’s what most people think, anyway.

There are many stories of mages who’ve done things for society, those who grew up in the Circle and passed their Harrowing, and also those who’ve had to live in secrecy their entire life. But these stories of apostates, mostly, are far and few, for most are afraid to show off their talents in public, afraid that death awaits them at the slightest showcase of their magic.

This story begins with an apostate - one of the nice ones. A simple man born to another mage who died during a long and painful childbirth and another mage who fled weeks after his babe was born, unable to handle the responsibility of raising a second possibly magical child by himself, unwilling to live life on the run with two apostate sons. Instead, he was raised by his twelve-year-old brother - another mage, of course - who accepted the responsibility without having to be asked twice and even found time throughout each day to help his brother try to keep his magic under control.

Now an old, white-haired man, Doyle is reaching his sixties, and has the proud achievement of surviving outside the Circle for, as far as his brother was concerned, quite possibly the longest anyone’s ever done. The years of living as an apostate show on his lined face, permanent bags under his eyes that look like dark bruises, and his frail body that gives him the appearance of a skeleton. Doyle does not have a home, nor does he have the opportunity to work - in fact, Doyle has never worked a real job in his entire life, but he does have one thing, and that’s his daughter - Lana.

His prized possession - his greatest friend. Lana, a girl not yet over the age of twenty-five, bears the same tired look that he constantly does and has not, to his relief, ever shown any signs of being a mage.

Lana, raised by her uncle alongside her father, has always been a force to be reckoned with. Her uncle had seen the damages the Circle inflicted upon innocent children and mages and repeated the same thing to her day after day after day: “ _Do not let the templars get your father_.”

Developing a hostile attitude towards templars and the ideas of the Circle at such a young age, Lana became hardened and bitter before reaching twelve, willing to go to extreme lengths to protect her father. Presented with her uncle’s favorite daggers, he trained her in the art of stealth and thievery, preparing her to survive on her own as a child.

At fifteen, her uncle dying from fever, Lana was summoned to his side.

Her uncle, an elderly man with a commanding presence, was weak and desperate during his final few days. Sweating and trembling violently in his bed, Lana held onto his hands tight. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and raspy, not at all sounding like himself.

“Lana,” he said, patting her hands. “My sweet girl - I need to ask you something before I am not able to.”

By the light of the few burning candles on his bedside table, Lana felt a shiver run down her spine at the sight of him, looking like a corpse. She knelt at his side, unable to stand on her wobbly legs anymore. “Uncle - _no_ -” she begged, her voice hardly a whisper.

“I am an old man now, Lana,” he replied. “Much past my prime. Don’t be sad.”

But Lana couldn’t help feeling sad. Tears welled in her eyes, feeling something between sadness and fury. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

“Don’t let your father be taken to the Circle,” he pleaded, his voice strained. “He must not be taken - do you understand me?”

Lana nodded, eyes wide and wet. “I do.”

“You’re a good girl, Lana. I’m so proud of you.” Her uncle smiles at her, but Lana couldn’t find the strength to smile back. “Now, listen to me, and listen carefully.”

She stared at him, eyebrows knitted together, clasping his hands so tightly that her uncle thought they might break.

“Nearly five decades I’ve cared for your father,” he began, frowning slightly. “And it’s not been easy. He needs you, Lana, and you need to understand that this road will be full of obstacles and temptations that will try to break you, but you must never fall victim to these things.”

“I won’t, Uncle.”

“My sweet Lana… what would I ever have done without you?” he chuckled. “Now, leave me - I fear that things are getting worse tonight…”

That was the last time Lana ever saw her uncle, but she stayed true to her word, never allowing her father to fall to the hands of the templars. And it’s that moment in time that she relives five years later, kneeling in the dirty corner of a rickety ship, wiping sweat away from her father’s hot forehead. It’s crowded, smelly, and noisy below the deck of the ship as families are huddled together, hugging and kissing and crying.

“We’ll be there soon, da,” Lana whispers in his ear, dunking her cloth into a bucket of lukewarm water beside her. It splashes over the rim as the ship sways from side to side and Lana fights off seasickness, swallowing the bile that rises in her throat. She pats his forehead again with the cloth and he closes his eyes. “We’ll get you something to eat when we dock.”

Her father nods, though he’s not all there. His skin is a pasty white color that makes him look like a ghost. It contrasts heavily with his snow white hair that sticks up in all directions. Lana runs a hand through his hair to calm him, but it doesn’t remain flat - instead, it pops back up and becomes even more ridiculous.

Escaping Ferelden had been a terrible adventure. The Blight had crept up on them as Lana’s father grew ill, more so each day, and even though she was sure they had gotten a head start, he had slowed her down drastically. It had been a real job keeping up with her stories, as well - Lana’s father didn’t particularly know that the Blight was really happening. She had made up a few tall tales about rogue soldiers tracking down mages, and her father was sold. He wanted to leave as quickly as she did.

Though, not expecting such an abrupt end to the Blight, it took Lana by surprise. She had heard the news about the archdemon being slayed as she handed over all her gold to a smuggler who promised to bring her away from the Blight.

Still, Lana feels horrible. She had promised her father before they boarded the ship headed for some city on the coast of the Free Marches that one day, they would return - but Lana, even now, has no intention of ever returning to Ferelden.

“Home?” her father asks, as if reading her thoughts. “When do we go home?”

“Kirkwall is going to be our new home,” she explains brightly, smiling at him. “That’s where the ship is taking us, da. I’ve told you that already.”

Her father seems horrified at the prospect of never returning to Ferelden. “But - Crestwood?”

Lana continues to smile at him sweetly. “You burnt our house down.” He chuckles at the memory, but Lana doesn’t find it funny whatsoever. She still remembers the face of the young mage she’d blamed the fire on. She remembers, still every night, the mage’s scream echoing throughout the surrounding forests after the templars had found her.

He screws up his eyes in concentration, trying to remember some of his favorite places. “Oh - Redcliffe!”

“You set two templars on fire,” she reminds him. Her daggers are still stained with their comrades’ blood.

“Oh.”

“Kirkwall will be just as good,” Lana sighs. “You should get some rest.”

Her father settles himself comfortably in the corner of the hold, in the perfect position so that sunlight doesn’t shine bright on his eyes as they close. Lana retracts her hand from his head and drops the washcloth into the bucket full of murky water. Her stomach growls and pains her as she pushes her way through the crowd of people, towards the stairs, and to the top of the ship, where fresh air overcomes her.

She finds an empty spot against the rail that keeps her from falling overboard. Retching and gagging over the side into the water, people move away from her quickly. Lana clutches her stomach, her throat burning from the acid, completely raw from the amount of sick she’s just produced. Taking in a deep breath, she shields her eyes from the sun with a slender hand and tries to spot land, but there’s nothing. Water surrounds them on all sides, not another ship in sight, not a single evidence of land.

The smugglers who are steering the ship and loud and obnoxious, eating fine cheeses and freshly caught fish, washing it all down with wine. The salty smell of cooked fish lingers in the air, finding its way towards Lana’s nostrils and making her feel even hungrier. Every so often they laugh and jeer at the several elves on board, throwing bottles at them and cackling when they hit their target.

The one thing she and her father need is food. The supply of moldy bread and gray mystery meat is dwindling quickly, so quickly that half the people aboard the ship are not getting their rations anymore, which leads to angry and violent outbursts from many of them. Lana, though, experienced in such shady things, finds it entirely too easy to swipe food from the pocket of someone who’s had too much compared to others.

Though her father doesn’t keep much down - his sickness only escalates the longer they spend on the sea, and what she originally believes to be seasickness and cold starts to develop into something more sinister as his skin warms. No matter what Lana tries, she can’t seem to keep her father comfortable and she begins to worry as rumors circulate that his health is spiraling downward and by the rate he’s going, he won’t make it to Kirkwall. She works hard to keep these whispers away from her father, who spends most of his time with his eyes shut.

The last night on their journey to Kirkwall, Lana sits in a circle of mostly children, splitting food amongst them. She breaks half a loaf of cheese bread into little pieces, passing them around until everyone has a small portion. Lana is quiet, listening to everyone chat.

“I heard it’s a shithole.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Everyone. Haven’t you talked to anyone on this ship? They all know it’s a shithole.”

“Then why are all these people going there?”

“Because there’s nowhere else to go.”

An elven boy sticks his nose in the air and crosses his arms, probably no older than fifteen. The girl he’s arguing with is slightly older than him. She smirks, squeezing her bread, leaning in closer towards him. The girl lowers her voice as she speaks directly to him.

“I heard it’s a city crawling with slavers,” she whispers. “Aren’t you just the least bit worried you’ll be snatched up?”

“Don’t scare him,” Lana snaps, catching the girl’s attention. “Everyone knows Tevinter is the only place that has slaves.”

“Just because we aren’t going to Tevinter doesn’t mean nobody’s going to take you,” the girl says again. “I heard the magisters pay a lot of coin for little elf boys.”

“Stop saying that,” Lana interrupts again, glaring at the girl. She turns to the boy, who looks horrified at the prospect. “Don’t listen to her. No one is going to take you.”

Another young human woman scoffs beside Lana. Leaning back on her hands, she suddenly chimes in. “At least you’re not a mage,” she notes haughtily. “My mum says Kirkwall is full of templars. Being a slave beats beating dead, doesn’t it?”

This gets Lana’s attention and the girl knows it. Lana widens her eyes and cocks a brow, interested. “How do you know that?”

“My mum used to travel around a lot,” she shrugs. “They keep the mages in a place called the Gallows. It’s like a prison. Or so they say.”

“And who says that? Your mum again?”

The girl smiles sweetly. “Why do you care? You’re not a mage, are you?”

“Me? No - no, of course not,” Lana stammers, but she can’t understand why she’s so nervous - it’s the truth.

“No need to look so nervous,” she laughs, suddenly less tense. “My father was a mage, but he surrendered himself to the Circle when I was five. The templars caught him.”

“And he’s still there now?” Lana asks. Judging by how old the girl looks - maybe eighteen - her father’s been in the Circle for over a decade if she’s not lying about it.

The girl’s face falls. “Well, I’m sure he is,” she says. “But it’s not like I’ve been able to contact him whenever I want.”

Lana hesitates, watching the girl. She’s returned to her small chunk of bread, eating it slowly and seeming distracted. “What Circle did he go to?”

The girl looks up at Lana and purses her lips. She catches onto Lana quickly, realizing that Lana knows more than she had been letting on. “Ferelden.”

“I heard about what happened at that Circle,” Lana whispers. “I’m sorry your father was in the middle of it. I - I hope he’s all right.”

“He’s dead,” the girl sighs, finally putting her food down. “The templars slaughtered the mages in there. A lot of them survived, but… the First Enchanter wrote my mum after it happened. It was kind of him to notify us.”

“I’m sorry.”

The elven boy and the girl he had been bickering with finish their food and get up, uncomfortable with the sudden change in topic. This leaves Lana and the girl with the mage father sitting together away from the crowd of people, the low hum of conversation providing excellent cover to have a quiet chat.

“I’m not as sad as I should be about it,” the girl continues, pulling her knees to her chest. “I don’t really remember him much. Mum was really upset about it when she got the letter. She’s never really been the same since she got the news.”

“I’m sure it was very hard for her,” Lana shakes her head, “not able to see her husband for all those years.”

“She knew what she was getting into when she married him.” The girl looks out to sea. “My mum became really outspoken after they took my father. The templars threatened to take me, too, because they were afraid I was a mage.”

Lana narrows her eyes. “Are _you_ a mage?”

The girl chuckles. “No,” she answers quickly. “If I was, I wouldn’t be going to Kirkwall.”

“Is it really that bad? For mages?”

“Do you know anything about Kirkwall?”

“No,” Lana admits. “I was so desperate to get out of Ferelden, I didn’t care where I went. Anywhere’s got to be better than there.”

“The Blight is over, you know? They’re rebuilding now. I bet it isn’t so bad anymore. Those Darkspawn were… they were something else, weren’t they? I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life now that I’ve seen those things.”

“If you think it’s getting better, why are you leaving?”

“A change of scenery, I suppose. It wasn’t really my decision in the first place. I just couldn’t bring myself to separate from my mother.”

Lana stares at the girl, blinking a few times before remembering where their conversation had been heading only seconds ago. “So, what about Kirkwall? What’s wrong with Kirkwall?”

“It used to be the capital of slave trade,” the girl explains, sounding quite confident. “And even though it’s not anymore, it’s still a terrible place full of - of suffering and - and…”

“My father’s a mage, too,” Lana breathes, hoping to find anything to talk about other than the hopeless city of Kirkwall. Her heart is beating a little faster than normal, suddenly worrying about protecting her father in a city like that.

The girl looks frightened. “You better keep a close eye on him, then,” she says. “The templars won’t take kindly to refugees - even less so to apostate ones.” She stands up, wiping her hands off on her pants. “Thank you for the bread.”

Lana is left alone, contemplating the near future. Soon, they’ll be at Kirkwall, and visions of dark and depressing city streets force their way into her mind’s eye. She’s sure that the girl was only exaggerating, if only slightly, because there’s no way one city could be so intolerant, so awful. But the girl seemed very serious when talking about it with Lana, fear in her eyes and the arrogant smirk gone from her face completely.

She’s curious as to why the girl is even on the ship in the first place. Curious as to whether everyone onboard is aware of the way Kirkwall is - does anyone expect it to be a place full of hope? A second chance at a normal life? Away from the destruction and desolation that is now Ferelden, torn apart by the Blight, a devastating and tragic wasteland in most places, crumbling buildings and the constant smell of blood.

Lana had expected Kirkwall to be her second chance. But an overwhelming sense of dread washes over her, afraid to leave the ship. How desperately she wants to turn the ship around, sail right back to Ferelden, maybe settle down in some uncharted land where no templars can find them.

Standing up, Lana leans against the side of the ship, biting the inside of her cheek. She can see land off in the distance, the silhouettes of a few other merchant ships. She can worry now, the only thing she can do is trust her instincts.

She throws her last few bites of bread into the ocean, unable to eat the rest of it with her violently churning stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me - I've rewritten this three times already.

Approaching the Gallows is like nothing Lana has ever seen before in Ferelden. The bronze statues that greet her and the ship she’s on are large and intimidating, casting fear into her soul before even docking. She glances around, wondering if everyone else is as distracted by the statues as she is. She wonders if the girl she spoke with about Kirkwall before knows about the statues. If she had been expecting them.

Lana slips down below the deck to grab her father. Waking him and letting him wrap an arm around her shoulders, she pulls him up to his feet slowly. He groans and mumbles something under his breath as he takes his first step in days towards the stairs. People are already starting to shuffle around nervously and no one takes care to clear a path for Lana or her father, so they stumble and push their way through the crowd. Her father mutters incoherently into her ear the entire way.

The ship lurches as it docks, the anchor stopping them before hitting land. Lana holds her father steady as they look at the place they’ve stopped. It’s a towering building, scary in all aspects, and an ominous energy radiates from the place. A building that looks almost like a prison - and at once, Lana knows what building this must be. As she looks around the grounds, she can see the templars watching carefully, donning heavy and official looking armor, but lacking helmets. Their eyes move quickly towards the newest ship to dock and as Lana helps her father onto land, she’s overcome with vertigo and the ground feels as if it’s spinning below her feet. Momentarily letting go of her father, Lana falls onto her hands and knees and vomits in the water, wiping her mouth with her sleeve and pulling her wild, dark hair up into a ponytail, sweat glistening on her forehead.

Only a few steps into the Gallows, Lana freezes with her father in tow. Hundreds of refugees surround them, huddling in corners or wandering about, brandishing weapons and proving that they’re ready for a fight. Hungry families, ill-stricken children, wide-eyed women, and haughty men - Lana takes in the sight, her heart sinking into her stomach. Templars guard the outskirts, occasionally chatting to each other, sharing a laugh, and taking large swigs from leather bottles or flasks. Terror floods over her at the sight of so many templars, but also at the helpless refugees who watch them carefully as they make their way through the maze of people. But after a few minutes, Lana knows that the only way through to the real city of Kirkwall is through the templars, so she swallows her pride.

“Da, we have to go speak to someone so we can go through,” she explains in a low voice, messing up his hair more than it already is. “Just - look as sick as possible, all right?” She lowers her voice even more. “And no funny business.”

But her father is much too weak to perform any “funny business” and they both know it. But he nods all the same. Lana squeezes his arm and he leans against her, resting his head on her shoulder. She looks around for a templar that looks halfway decent, the least intimidating of them all, someone not so old and set in their ways… and then she spots him, a man about her age who casts a weary glance about every so often, sweat visible on his pale forehead, his curly blonde hair smoothed back and glowing in the sun. He holds his hands behind his back, standing alone, chest puffed out as if attempting to seem proud.

Lana nods towards him and pulls her father along, looking over her shoulder. He’s looking deathly ill and it makes her heartbeat quicken. They approach the templar, blood pumping and head pounding, the lights too bright for her, but the templar looks at her in a way unlike any templar has ever looked at her before. She’s become used to templars sneering at her and her father, looking away as if seeing something horrific, like some kind of diseased rodent. But this templar’s jaw sets as soon as he lays eyes upon Lana, and his eyes widen, darting away from her stare, under which he nearly crumbles.

Noticing that he’s looked away rather quickly, Lana clears her throat and tries to catch his eye again. “Excuse me - ser?” she says, and the templar’s eyes move slowly towards her’s again. “Aren’t they letting anyone into the city?”

The templar hesitates, seemingly gathering his thoughts before answering. “Er - no. Kirkwall filled up fast, actually, it seems that everyone from Ferelden had the same idea.”

Lana sighs heavily, glancing about before turning back to the templar. “And what of all these people? You’re going to leave them here to die?”

“No, of course not!” he replies, sounding offended. “Ships are coming back for them.”

“You can’t possibly send us all back to Ferelden! It was only just overrun by Darkspawn not too long ago!”

“I’m sorry, but there’s just no room for more refugees -”

“But my father,” Lana interrupts, taking a tiny step backwards to show off her father, who’s eyes are half-shut and mouth is lolling open, drool leaking down his chin like an animal. “He’s sick! We must get into the city, ser! He won’t survive another trip back to Ferelden!”

The templar looks her father up and down and cringes at the sight of him. She doesn’t blame him - her father does look truly awful and close to death. Frowning, the templar slumps his shoulders, looking defeated. “I’m sorry, but orders are orders and we can’t let anyone else into the city.”

“You would subject this man to die, then?” Lana challenges him, standing up as tall as she can, noticing now how much larger the templar is compared to her, especially in his armor. The templar shifts uncomfortably under her scrutinizing stare. “What do you think would happen if you allowed two more people into Kirkwall? You think the entire city would collapse by allowing us to enter?”

“That’s - that’s not it at all! It’s just - all these people were here before you - if I were to let anyone in - I - orders are orders!”

“He’s dying!” Lana hisses. She cares not whether her father hears her - he’s much too out of it to understand what’s going on anymore. “He’s all I have! We need to get in and have him made better!”

“I - I’m sorry, but I can’t - I can’t let you in. I’m sorry.”

Lana’s face falls and she knows that no matter what, the templar won’t let her through. But she’s not stupid enough to attack him in the open, no matter how badly she wants to. But that templar before her speaks to her as if he’s a normal person, not an arrogant man who’s proud of the number of deaths by his hand. Lana shuts her mouth, thinking that maybe he’ll be able to be reasoned with.

She turns to her father, looks at him closely, and feels her head swimming with thoughts. How much longer can her father live like this? Days? Hours? Minutes? How many seconds until her father would be beyond healing or curing? She needs time. As much time as she can get because she needs to think of a strategy, one that won’t put her father into harm's way. One wrong move and that templar would not be very friendly towards her and her father. But too much time might kill her father. She knows a decision must be made, the safest one in her opinion.

If her father has to die, it will not be at the hand of templars.

“It gives me no pleasure denying you and your father access to Kirkwall, if you must know,” the templar sighs. “It’s not often I get to have such a riveting conversation with a stranger.”

“Then expect one tomorrow, as well,” she answers quickly, turning her back on the templar, “when I demand to be let in again.”

“The answer will still be ‘no’,” the templar says, chuckling quietly. Lana does not laugh with him and he stops immediately, clearing his throat and shifting awkwardly again as she walks away. “But I am eager to hear what new, passionate proclamations you’ll have made up tomorrow!”

Lana sits and waits and watches as the hours pass. The sun that had been shining so brightly that morning when the docked starts to go down and soon, the moons of Thedas are high in the sky, the only source of light in the Gallows. The refugees that have been there for days are much kinder than the ones that had sailed over with Lana. They provide her father with food and water, medicinal herbs they’ve gathered in Ferelden. Her father is ecstatic over all the attention and seems altogether more healthy that night with people forcing their way to his side.

She takes this opportunity to watch the templar. He stands guard for about three hours or so before being relieved for three more. During these times, an older and much more intimidating looking man comes out, eyes fixed upon every person who comes within six feet of him, hand always grasping the hilt of his hefty sword. Lana doesn’t think this man will even speak to them, let alone listen to her attempt at reasoning.

When the younger templar comes back, Lana watches him the entire time, looking away only to check and make sure her father is still alive. The templar’s eyes sweep over them every so often, then quickly away as if he hadn’t seen them. She sits back, shutting her eyes, and thinking of anything that could be said to get them into that city. Lana briefly considers stripping down naked and hoping he’d gawk long enough for her to jump a ship to the main of Kirkwall.

As the night comes to an end, in the wee hours of the morning, Lana notices a sudden shift in her father’s behavior as people begin to leave him be. He sleeps for most of the time, but his skin still burns and he groans and moans in his sleep. Her heart quickens in her chest as she imagines her father dealing with demons - something she’s been lucky to avoid for all the years she’s taken care of him. He’s never been so ill before and Lana tries to remember if her uncle had moaned and groaned in his sleep when he was ill, too.

But her uncle was a powerfully willful man who would never fall victim to demons. Her father, on the other hand, has a fragile mind, and Lana isn’t sure if he’s as strong as her uncle was.

The young templar disappears again, replaced by a woman this time. She’s older than Lana is, wrinkles in her hard face, brown hair graying at the roots. Attentive as she is to the refugees, she refuses to step in when three men start fighting to the death and only orders the bodies to be taken away when one of the men loses control of his bowels. Other than that, she seems mildly amused afterwards.

Lana doesn’t sleep that night. She can’t. Her body aches and her eyelids are heavy, but she can’t bring herself to fall asleep. When the sun begins to rise, Lana is worried she might drop dead in the middle of the Gallows, more tired than she’s ever felt. The journey to Kirkwall was a worrisome and nerve wracking one, and still, her nerves jangle with each small movement. She doesn’t wait long for the young templar to take up his position again and she looks at her father before standing.

Sleeping peacefully, Lana’s father has not improved. She can hear his stomach growling - or maybe it’s her own - and his hair is drenched with sweat. Lana breathes heavily, eyes fixed upon her father, and then she stands up, leaving him in the corner of the courtyard. No one pays much attention to him and she thinks that having him walk is a terrible idea.

As soon as she steps into the sun, she groans, blinded by the light. She runs a hand through her hair, pushing the strays from her face, wiping sweat off her forehead. It’s not hot, nor is it very humid, but she’s nervous. Her past interactions with templars have been nothing but violent and angry and one stupid word, one mindless move could get her killed. Lana brushes this thought off and walks up to the templar and he sees her coming a mile away. Standing up straighter, the templar prepares himself, a small smile on his face.

“I told you I’d be back,” she sighs, crossing her arms.

“Do you often watch people as closely as you do me?” the templar asks, a shiver running down his spine. “You were making me a little uncomfortable.”

“Was I?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The templar inhales deeply, tilting his head back and letting the sun wash over his face. “Listen, I told you yesterday, I can’t let you in. Nothing’s changed in twenty-four hours. I still can’t let you in.”

“Says who?” Lana demands. “Who’s telling you not to let anyone into the city? Do they know that we’re all sitting out here, hungry and sick and terrified?”

The templar hesitates, debating whether or not to actually tell her. “The Knight-Commander. That’s who says.”

Lana falters. “What do you mean the Knight-Commander? Surely a templar isn’t in charge of deciding who is fit to enter the city? That’s not a templar’s job!”

“And who are you to determine what is or what isn’t a templar’s job?” he replies slowly.

Lana growls, her voice lower than ever, furious. “You templars are all the same, taking orders from a power-hungry master, ignoring what is right and what is wrong. You don’t care who lives or dies at your hand, as long as you get your praise like dogs.”

The templar scoffs, the first automatic response he’s had yet. Instead of thinking things through this time, he speaks right away, but doesn’t raise his voice. “As if you refugees know anything we templars do,” he snaps. “Right or wrong? We do what is necessary, even if everyone doesn’t always agree with us. And I don’t think the opinion of a refugee girl is enough to sway my views on that. Templars have an important job in this world, and it looks to me like the only important thing you’ve ever done in your life is live past the age of sixteen.”

“Don’t pretend that you’ve joined the Templar Order because you’re righteous and care about the lives of others that are threatened by mages,” Lana snorts and the templar crosses his arms across his chest, a slight smirk gracing his face.

The templar examines Lana closely, from her square jaw to her long legs. She looks extremely underfed, but her legs are toned and muscular, giving him the impression she’s walked far distances quite often. Her arms are quite the same as her legs, and the templar notes this, his eyes flicking to the daggers on her back in their sheaths, assuming that she’s quite practiced with them. “I can’t let you in, and that’s all I have left to say about the matter. If you’d like, I can introduce you to my superior and you can voice all your opinions to her instead. Though, she might not appreciate your outspokenness as I have.”

“Are you threatening me?”

He blushes again, unable to look her in the eyes again as she narrows her’s. “It doesn’t seem like this is the first time you’ve given this speech to a templar,” he assumes, watching someone pass behind Lana and sneering when they linger for a bit too long. When the person has gone, the templar continues in a whisper. “I’m surprised you’ve made it this far.”

“Let me and my father inside.”

“Haven’t you been listening to me?” the templar laughs again. “I can only let in those that have business - legitimate business - into Kirkwall. And, by the look of you, you have absolutely no business here.”

Lana looks around, hands flinching towards her daggers. There is no hope of getting inside Kirkwall. She values her life too much to attack, knowing that it’s suicide. She looks back at her father and slumps her shoulders. “When are the ships going to bring us back to Ferelden?”

The templar purses his lips. “Another day or so.”

She nods. “All right.”

Walking away from the templar, Lana makes her way back to her father quickly. His eyes are finally open and he smiles weakly as his daughter crouches down beside him. She smiles back, her heart heavy, and pulls him into her arms, wiping his forehead and combing his hair with her fingers. “Home?” her father rasps, helping himself to some water. “Kirkwall?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lana whispers. “We’re going to go back to Ferelden, da.”

“I thought -?”

“Kirkwall isn’t nice enough for us,” she explains softly, as if to a child. “I don’t think we’d really like it here, so I thought you’d want to go home.”

“I’d like that.”

“I thought you would.” Lana looks back at the templar, who’s looking everywhere but her, purposefully avoiding her gaze. “Where should we go, da? Anywhere you want.”

Her father thinks, closing his eyes. “Anywhere?”

“Anywhere?”

“Yes, anywhere.”

“Redcliffe,” he says, his answer natural and quick.

“All right,” Lana says. “We’ll go to Redcliffe.” She shifts uncomfortably, trying to find a position that will allow her to sleep for a few hours. Her father moves very slowly, like the old man he is, putting his head in her lap. “Da, I think I’m going to sleep for a little bit.”

Her father hums in response. She settles her head back against the corner of the wall and shuts her eyes, her chest tight and stomach churning as if needing to vomit again. It’s hard to fall asleep with the sun shining against her eyelids, loud voices all around her. But within minutes, she’s asleep and even hunger pangs don’t wake her.

_“An adventure? Like the stories?” Her face brightens at the prospect. After spending most of her life indoors, the idea of an adventure sounds most exciting._

_“Don’t let them find him, Lana,” her uncle says seriously, holding her hands. “You have no idea what they’ll do to him.”_

_“What will they do to him?” Lana asks innocently, swinging her legs over the side of her bed, watching her father flip through pages of a child’s book. “If they do find him?”_

_Her uncle is concerned. She is young, naive, small. “They’ll kill him, Lana.”_

_She gasps, her eyes widening, tears welling up in her eyes. Lana rips her hands away from her uncle’s to cover her mouth. He stands up, moving backwards a few steps and opening a drawer in one of the tables that litter the room. Her uncle is a hoarder, and he always has been, keeping every book that he reads or doesn’t read, every piece of paper he comes across, every piece of garbage he finds in the streets. But instead of pulling a document out of the drawer, he procures two small weapons. Lana’s uncle moves back towards her, kneeling and holding out the daggers for her to take._

_Lana hesitates, looking at them carefully. She’s never held a weapon before, never trained or practiced with one. Looking up at her uncle for silent permission, he nods, and Lana takes the daggers from his hands, not expecting them to be so heavy. She nearly drops them at first, but then squeezes them tighter in her hands. Lana slides off the bed and stands, and the scene is strange. Her balance is thrown off by the daggers; they’re much too big for her small and gawky frame. Her uncle promises her that she’ll grow into them._

_The handles are beautiful, looking handcarved. They’re expensive looking, freshly polished and extremely sharp - she flicks a finger against the blade and draws blood. From another drawer, as Lana is inspecting her new gifts carefully, her uncle retrieves two scabbards, leather and obviously old and worn, having seen better days. He helps Lana hook them on her sides, but when she slides the daggers into them, they bang against her legs when she walks about the room, making her severely uncomfortable. They try again, this time fitting the scabbards on her back, making it easy for her to grab them in just a few seconds. They practice this for a few moments, removing the daggers as quickly as possible and getting a good grip on them. They practice a stance that allows her to move quickly, dancing around whatever enemies they may face. And then, Lana sheaths her blades and her uncle smiles wearily._

_“They’re yours now, my darling,” he whispers, tucking her hair behind her ears._

_“I can’t take these, Uncle. They belong to you.” He sighs. “I’m much too old to be fighting anymore.”_

_Lana doesn’t fight this. Uncle is older than her father. Her father’s hair is still dark and full, but Uncle’s hair is completely gray, even his beard is discolored. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his skin sun-damaged and his frame larger than usual. Her father is a lanky man, with long legs and arms that dangle awkwardly at his sides._

_“I’ll protect you, Uncle,” Lana shrugs casually._

_“I love you,” he says quietly, holding the sides of her face, unable to stop himself from crying. “You are so loved, Lana.”_

_“I know, Uncle, please don’t cry,” she says. “I love you too.”_

_“You are a wonderful, wonderful girl, and I am so proud of the woman you’re becoming.”_

_“You aren’t leaving, are you?” Lana asks._

_“No, no,” he continues with a chuckle. “I just - I wish things could be different for you.”_

_Lana looks Uncle up and down and wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly._

Lana wakes abruptly to being shaken. Someone’s hand is grasping her shoulder tightly and she sits up quickly, throwing her father’s head off her lap. She cries out as her neck cracks and is surprised to see the sky is now dark. Her eyes adjust to the dark and she sees who’s been shaking her awake - the young templar, eyes darting around and bloodshot.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, pushing him away.

The templar grabs her father, helping him to his feet. The young man allows her father to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Are you coming or not?” the templar spits, raising his eyebrows.

“Coming where? Where are you taking him?” Lana instinctively reaches for her daggers, but her father holds out a hand to stop her and nods at the templar. She flares her nostrils, looking up at the templar.

“I’m getting you into the city.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already made myself so angry by not posting a new chapter for so long. Three chapters in and I'm already drowning. Work stress has been getting to me (not to mention a toddler wanting to be chased thirty hours of the day). I'm proud to say I finished this at four o'clock in the morning last night after chain smoking half a pack of cigarettes. How poetic of me.

“Are you coming or not?”

Lana stares at the templar through narrow eyes, trying to decide quickly whether or not to trust him. Her brain is screaming at her to attack, to grab her father and run away, but the man’s wide eyed, crazy look makes it seem like he’s not trying to kill either of them. The templar pleads silently with her, Lana’s father leaning against his armor.

“Hey!” the templar waves a hand in front of her face, breaking her concentration. “Let’s go!”

Jumping to her feet, Lana follows the templar, who’s already walking ahead with her father in tow. She looks around through the darkness to see if anyone is paying them any attention, and some are, but most are asleep. “What are you doing?” she whispers in his ear, gritting her teeth, fingers flinching and flexing. “People are watching.”

“We only have about ten minutes to get you onto a boat,” he breathes, sweating profusely. It seems that Lana isn’t the only one nervous about this idea. He hoists her father up a little more and quickens his pace. Lana is hot on his heels, breathing heavily. “A ship runs back and forth approximately every three hours to bring templars back to the city and bring them here. We’ll have to avoid the templars being brought here - that’ll be the hard part.” He walks down a series of twists and turns, leading Lana and her father into a more deserted part of the Gallows. “Most templars won’t like the idea of sneaking in a couple of refugees without permission to bring them in.”

The templar rounds the corner into a dark and narrow pathway, but Lana slams him against the brick wall. Before he has time to react, the templar feels a cool blade pressed lightly against his revealed neck. He holds his hands up in surrender, and Lana’s father staggers without support, holding himself up against the wall. 

“What are you doing?” the templar spits. “I’m trying to help you! Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“You’re not helping us! You’re leading us into a fucking trap!” Lana presses the blades harder against the templar’s neck and he winces, but the blades do not draw blood yet. She knows that, if the templar is telling the truth, this could be her only way into the city. 

“How about you put your blades down and we talk about this like civilized human beings?” he asks, chest heaving beneath his breastplate. “You’re acting like a damn savage!”

“What’s in it for you?” Lana demands.

“I told you to put your blades down,” the templar says again. He stares at her, his heart-rate slowing back down to a normal pace, and Lana searches his face for any sign of a hint that he’s going to double cross her. But he seems honest - young and inexperienced, yes, but mostly incredibly honest. Slowly, very slowly, Lana lowers her blades and the templar sighs loudly, running a hand through his hair, the curls lying flat against his head, soaked with sweat. “Thank you.” He rubs the skin on his neck where the blades were pressing against.

Once the templar deems himself safe and unharmed for the time being, he helps Lana’s father steady his feet once more, but Lana stops him again. “Hang on!” she hisses. “You haven’t answered my question yet!”

The templar, once again, lets go of Lana’s father and turns to face her, a threatening look cast across his face. He sighs impatiently, glancing left and right quickly to make sure they aren’t being overheard. “Look,” he whispers, stepping closer to Lana. She immediately backs away and the templar notices this and stops moving. “I know your father is sick - very sick. I’m not heartless, all right?”

“So because my father is sick, you’re prepared to possibly lose your status for him?” Lana shakes her head. When he doesn’t answer, Lana presses him again. “What’s in it for you?”

The templar shrugs, rolling his eyes. “Maybe a chance for you to see that not all templars are the same?”

Lana scoffs. “One out of a million isn’t going to change my mind about you,” she says. “If you’re serious about this, then just get us through to Kirkwall without getting us killed, then maybe I’ll be a bit more open to your own reasoning.”

He furrows his brows. “Fine.”

Sheathing her daggers, Lana relaxes, her eyes falling to her father, who’s hunched against the wall, his chest heaving. The templar lifts him up straighter against his body. “So what’s the plan?” she asks.

“You’ll have to get on the ship after the templars being brought get off, and before the templars going back to Kirkwall get on. There’s going to be about twenty templars getting on the boat after you get on, so it’s crucial that you stay hidden the entire time.”

“I’m supposed to hide? Where?”

“The ships we have running back and forth are the same ships they used to bring slaves to the mainland,” the templar explains, walking her father through the shadows. “Which means the ship was built to put as many people on board as possible. Not to sneak them on board, but to utilize every inch of space. This space isn’t exactly hidden from plain view, but if you’re quiet enough, all you’ll have to do is wait until all the templars leave the ship and then you’re free.”

“Have you done this before? With other refugees?” she asks, following the templar closely. “Seems like this isn’t the first time you’ve told someone this.”

“No, it’s my first time,” he replies with a grunt. “But I had to practice what I was going to say to you, or else I’d probably just sound like an overanxious schoolboy.” He freezes and looks over his shoulder at Lana. “Do I sound like an overanxious schoolboy?”

She hesitates, scrunching her nose. “No! Now, hurry up!”

Lana pushes him ahead of her, eyes passing over her father. His eyes are closed, his body resting against the templar’s, and Lana hesitates, unable to comprehend such a scene. A templar supporting her father - completely ignorant to the fact that her father is a mage, however - and offering to help her. 

“We should go,” the templar shrugs, nodding towards her father. “We should probably get him to lie down.”

She nods and follows the templars, weaving in and out of the shadows, completely silent except for the heaving breathing of the nervous templar. It’s easy enough to avoid the tired group of templars getting off the ship, chatting with each other, hardly looking to see if anyone is around. The templar Lana is following is a bit noisy, his armor clanking around, but it’s much less than all the heavy footsteps of the oblivious templars. 

When at last they reach the boat, the templar informs her that they’ve got about two minutes until it’s likely she and her father will be seen by the incoming templars. The templar passes Lana’s father back to her and her father opens his eyes slightly and looks at the templar for what seems like the first time, his eyes taking in the armor and the crest upon it. He appears to shrink in Lana’s arms, more comfortable with her than he was with the templar. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, almost too quietly for the templar to hear. “I -”

“You don’t have to repay me,” he says quickly.

Lana scrunches her nose. “I wasn’t going to offer you anything.”

The templar scoffs, shrugging his shoulders. He and Lana stare at each other for a few seconds, unsure of what to say. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

Lana doesn’t look away from him. She clutches her father closer and the corners of her mouth turn upwards. “What makes you think I owe you even that much?”

“I got you into the city, didn’t I?”

“I’m not there yet.”

He sighs and nods. “You should get on. The other templars will be coming soon.”

___________________________________

The ride to the Kirkwall docks seems to take forever. While it’s nowhere near as long as the day long journey they’d taken to the Gallows, Lana and her father spend the entire trip lying flat on their backs underneath the floorboards of the hull. Templars walk right above her and she has to hold her hand over her mouth to keep herself from giving them away, her breathing loud. Her father sleeps the entire time, still not getting any better, which worries Lana, but there’s very little she can do in such a confined area. 

At long last, the ship docks and the templars all scuttle overtop of her again, making their way up the wooden steps to get off the ship. When there’s silence, Lana pushes the floorboard up with her feet and inhales deeply, fresh air filling her head. She stumbles for a moment, feeling the urge to vomit again, but she knows she doesn’t have the time to mess around now. Lana grabs her father’s under his arms and pulls him up onto the floor, helping him up to his feet.

“Da, come on, can you walk?” She knows it’s a foolish question, but she’s relieved to hear him moan an answer. With all of her father’s weight on her, it slows her down drastically, but she’s able to get up to the deck of the ship. 

It’s much easier than she imagined it to be, getting off the ship in the darkness. By now, the sun is starting to peek out from the horizon, the oversized mountains in the distance eerie looking and powerful, snow at the very peaks, she imagines. Perhaps in the daylight, the city won’t seem so foreboding. But stepping foot into the city is a huge victory for Lana and she takes pride in that before realizing that her father is still ill and her body is aching, in desperate need of rest.

It suddenly occurs to Lana that she’s not really sure what to do with her father. As they creep further into Kirkwall, it’s apparent that no one is going to offer any assistance. The streets are empty, save for some templars walking around. The shops are still all closed, not a single light burning inside a building. She glances back up towards the rising sun, wishing it would rise a hundred times quicker, hoping that people will start to wake soon, open shops, help her find someone who can fix her father. Despite the help she was given from the young templar, she refuses to ask a templar for help.

Lana and her father wander for a bit, stopping finally when she finds a dark and secluded enough alleyway for her to get some rest. She settles herself against a hard wall, the ground incredibly uncomfortable against her tailbone, her father’s head resting in her lap. His breaths are shallow, his hair drenched. But there’s nothing Lana can do for him now… the only thing she can think to do is sleep, even if only for a few hours. Once she has rested, she’ll be able to think properly. She’ll be able to find people who can help her. Lana clears her head and falls asleep within seconds.

A painful burning sensation on her thigh wakes her. She yelps and looks around, the streets now packed with people who don’t even bother to glance sideways at her and her father. Lana looks down at her leg and pushes her father’s hand off her leg, his skin sizzling against the fabric of her pants. “That hurts!” she hisses, looking sadly at him. “I’ve told you not to do that, da!”

He sighs, frowning and looking away like a child who’s been scolded. “You wouldn’t wake up.” He sniffs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out some meat. It’s pink in the middle, fat hanging off the sides, juice dripping into the palm of her father’s hand. He holds it out in front of her, a weak smile on his face.

“Where did you get that?” she asks, looking suspiciously at it. 

Her father shrugs. “A nice lady.” He offers it to Lana again.

“No, thanks,” she says, her stomach punishing her for rejecting a meal. “Eat it, da. I’ll get some food later.”

He eats it without hesitating, shoving it into his own mouth, and making Lana’s mouth water. She turns away, not able to look at him eating. She tries to distract herself, looking around at all the people crowding the streets, watching them closely. She tries to hear their conversations, eyes darting from pocket to pocket, looking for something that could be easy to steal. Her fingers itch now that her pockets are empty and light instead of weighed down by coins and food.

People seem a bit more guarded and ready in Kirkwall. Of course, Ferelden had it’s own set of problems, what with the Blight and growing numbers of bandits preying on travelers. But even then, with the looming threat of another Darkspawn attack, people in Ferelden didn’t seem so - dangerous. Walking around with daggers on her back was always something earning her shady looks in Ferelden, but here, in Kirkwall, it doesn’t seem that anyone even notices. No one bats an eye, or quickens their pace upon seeing her weapons. It’s the standard here - it’s normal.

Lana pictures a city full of people like her. People with her abilities - people who steal and cheat and lie and kill. Her confidence waivers for a moment as she considers going up against people much older than she, much more trained and experienced, in it for themselves and nothing else. 

“Da, I’ll have to leave you for a little bit,” Lana says suddenly, stretching her arms. Her father looks at her wide-eyed, afraid for his life. “I have to find somewhere to take you.”

He considers this. “Sorry,” he rasps. “I burnt you.”

Lana shrugs, pursing her lips. “It’s all right.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if there are any errors here, I was in a rush to leave and wanted to get it published! I apologize for the long wait, as well, but hope the chapter is worth it!

It’s easy enough for Lana to steal a few loaves of burnt bread from the backs of merchant carts and one man, dressed in brand new silks, passes her on the street and takes a good long look at her. After scrunching his nose, he throws a few bronze coins at her. Lana scrambles to pick them up quickly before anyone else can get to them and she stuffs them in her coin purse. The purse is emptier than it has ever been, but the inside of her satchel is filled with food and her stomach rumbles loudly with each step and she dreams of the feast she’ll lay out in front of her and her father that night. 

The last thing she does is find the local tavern — The Hanged Man — and buy a pint of beer with the bronze coins the man had given her. She has a hard time leaving the tavern, despite the stale smell of smoke that fills the air and the laughter of drunken men and women and the sound of coins rubbing together at each table. Lana sits in the corner for a few minutes, eating a bit of the bread she had stolen to hold her off. She can’t help but to smile in spite of everything.

All kinds of people fill The Hanged Man. There are humans and elves and dwarves, all gambling with each other and playing cards. In the opposite corner of the hazy establishment, a bard strums a mandolin and sings a song with his high-pitched voice. It’s then, when Lana starts to feel sick with hunger, than she returns to her father in that shadowy, cool corner of town with all of her spoils.

More people are in the streets now, conversations happening all around. Merchants trade with citizens, selling weapons and armor and herbs and jewelry. One of them tries hard to convince Lana to buy a silvery necklace with a large, blue jewel in the center, claiming that at 500 gold pieces, she’d be getting it for a steal. She smiles at him  —  she almost feels as if she’s back in Denerim, surrounded by people, almost invisible. The city is much more welcoming in the daytime, when the streets are busy and bustling, and her feeling of dread seems to slip away. Not completely, but enough where she doesn’t feel the need to look over her shoulder twice in thirty seconds.

Lana kneels in front of her father, who looks worse than ever. He trembles violently when he sees her, eyes looking hungrily towards her satchel, which is bursting with bread and cheese. “I’ve got some food,” she tells him quietly. “Food will be good for you. Come, sit up, da, we’ll make a spread here…”

“Not here, you won’t,” says a voice behind her. The voice is gruff and irritable. When she turns around, her stomach drops at the sight. A templar looks down at them, eyes droopy and bloodshot. “Damn refugees. We did you a service allowing you in our city, so do us a service and move, will you? You rats belong in the sewers.”

Lana looks at him with wide eyes, unsure of what exactly he’s talking about.

“Goddamn beggars,” he mutters, reaching into his coin purse and pulling out a silver coin. He holds it out for Lana to take, but she doesn’t move. “There  —  now, will you move? No one wants to see dirty refugees eating dirty food up here.”

Sweat forms on Lana’s brow. The templar looks tired, not older than thirty, with a double chin that jiggles as he talks. Patchy facial hair covers his cheeks, red as fire. He doesn’t look terrifying and Lana knows she can outrun him with ease, especially with him weighted down by all of his armor, but with her father, she couldn’t make it three feet before the templar caught them.

Lana touches her father’s knee gently before rising to her feet. She can feel her daggers against her thighs, hidden by the dirty cloak around her shoulders.

_ At least you’re not a mage _ , the girl on the ship had said,  _ My mum says Kirkwall is full of templars. Being a slave beats being dead, doesn’t it _ ?

Now that it’s daylight, Lana looks past the templar and scans the streets. Now that she actually looks, she sees them all. Templars in groups of three and four stand along the high walls that surround them. Pairs patrol the streets, steering clear of the crowd of people who mingle and trade wares, mostly items not very high in demand or of a lower quality than the merchant carts in the area people in Kirkwall called ‘Hightown’. She remembers the girl’s words well and her fear spikes. The relief of being on solid ground again and being ushered into the city under the cover of darkness had made her temporarily forget that Kirkwall was supposedly dangerous.

“What’s wrong with him?” the templar asks, taking a step back and jolting Lana back to reality. “Not contagious, is it? Can’t really afford to come down with some beggar illness.”

“I don’t know. Where  — ?”

The templar looks beyond annoyed, as if he’s spoken to several confused refugees already. He rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, just follow the smell. Where the stink is the worst  —  that’s where you rats belong. I swear, they’re starting to let too many of you in. Now go on, get moving. I don’t want to ask again.” The templar looks her up and down again. “And see if you can’t get a bath while you’re at it.”

He turns and walks away. Without hesitation, Lana gathers up all of her belongings and all of their food and shuts her satchel quickly. She helps her father to his feet, but his weight is too much for her. Perhaps if she were well fed and rested, it wouldn’t be so bad. But Lana is hungry and desperate for a good night's sleep, preferably in a bed, and her legs shake underneath her and she carries her father’s dead weight. She looks down the way the templar pointed them and looks over her should to see if the man is still watching, but he’s not. The templar is already bothering another refugee who had been sleeping on the ground a little ways down the narrow side street.

She waits, silently, watching as the refugee is pulled to his feet gruffly by the templar and pushed out into the crowd. The refugee, with nothing to take with him, limps away. The templar looks over his shoulder and takes a look at Lana. She hobbles after the refugee as quickly as she can with her father and the templar shakes his head and walks off. 

Lana learns the name of her new home now  —  Darktown, the refugees call it. It’s a foul place, stinking of death and decay, disease and chokedamp. The smell makes her gag and her appetite is suddenly gone. Sick and dying refugees crowd the dark alleyways  —  men, women, and children  —  and look up at Lana and her father with wide, hollow eyes, cheeks gaunt and sunken, stomachs hungry and babes sucking greedily at their mothers’ breasts.

There are no homes in Darktown, no buildings, no taverns. When Lana looks upwards, she cannot even see the hazy gray color of the sky, she cannot see the sun, and she knows that there will be no splattering of stars to look up to at night, nor will she see the bright, comforting light of the moons. She tries to avoid looking at everyone, but she can feel their eyes on her and her father, can feel their stares burning holes in the back of her head.

As they walk a little further, the smell of death becomes overpowering. Lana and her father round a corner and her legs turn to jelly underneath her. Stacked against the tunnel wall across from her are bodies, stiff and pale, bodies of all sizes and shapes and ages, thrown on top of each other without care. Some have their eyes wide open as if in shock, some don’t have eyes at all and only have empty sockets. Flesh is torn away in places were rats have gotten to the bodies and flies buzz around the pile, the buzzing ringing in Lana’s ears.

She grabs onto her father tighter and backs away, trying to place as much distance between her and the pile of dead bodies as possible. Unable to hold him for much longer, they collapse together a little ways away from the bodies, the smell still wafting in the air. It’s much stronger now that she knows they’re there, ignored by the guards and templars who refuse to come down into Darktown. But Lana is thankful that they don’t dare venture down into the tunnels as it’s one less thing to worry about.

Hesitantly, she reaches into her satchel and breaks off a piece of bread. She passes it to her father, but he doesn’t reach out to take it. Lana looks at him, aware of everyone looking directly at her satchel, and she imagines they’re thinking of ways to beat her and steal her food. With this in mind, she takes a moment to position herself so her daggers are clearly visible, warding off unarmed thieves, but she wonders how many in Darktown are willing to fight to the death for a few scraps of food.

Her father barely eats, barely able to chew and swallow, and sometimes he falls asleep in between bites. Lana shakes him awake each time, afraid that the next time he closes his eyes will be the last. She knows he won’t survive long down here, not without some help.

Later that night, with her cloak draped over her father as a blanket, Lana looks up at the damp ceiling, wishing she could see the stars. The air is stuffy and overwhelming in Darktown and she craves fresh air, cool breezes, and the sounds of nighttime.

_ “What’s wrong with him? He won’t talk to me. He won’t tell me he loves me when I tell him.” _

_ “Your father loves you, Lana,” her uncle replies, “and he has since you were a babe. He loved you the minute he laid eyes on you.” _

_ “Then why won’t he tell me?” _

_ Lana’s uncle picks her up in his arms. She’s now a girl of five, with unruly dark hair like her father’s and dark eyes like her mother. She’s small for her age, but she makes up for it with her stubbornness and boldness. Her uncle smiles at her dearly. She’s always been outspoken, ever since she learned to speak. _

_ “Uncle, what’s wrong with him?” _

_ “There’s nothing wrong with him, child,” he replies gently. “He’s just different from you and I.” Lana looks at him with a half smile on her face, only half understanding. “It’s not a bad thing, sweetling. I promise you that he loves you, just as I do.” _

_ “He never tells me stories like you do.” _

_ Her uncle laughs. “Your father has never liked stories,” he says, peppering her face with kisses. “He’s always liked songs. Do you sing to him the songs I’ve taught you?” _

_ Lana giggles and rests her head against his shoulder. “No.” _

_ “Maybe you should.” _

_ “Can you do the fire trick?” _

_ “Not here, sweetling,” her uncle replies. “And don’t speak of tricks too loudly… you never know who could be listening in the shadows…” _

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she wakes with a start, still sitting up against the dirty wall. Her father’s head is still in her lap, her cloak still pulled up to his chin. Around her, the day has already started. Greasy merchants attempt to sell and trade their wares, rats are cooked on spits over fires and beds of coals. As hungry as she is, Lana can’t find it in herself to even imagine herself eating cooked rat.

But something else has her distracted.

Her father only worsens and he cries out, attracting attention from others. His face is hotter than ever, burning Lana’s skin on contact. He sweats through his clothing and his hair is soaking wet. His lips are dry from lack of water, cracking and starting to bleed. Lana cries at the sight of him, kissing his feverish forehead, apologizing into his ear over and over again in soft whispers.

“I love you,” she sighs, hugging him close to her. “I love you, da, I love you, I love you, I love you…” Lana takes his hand in her’s squeezing it tightly. “I’ll get you help, da, I promise…” But she doesn’t want to leave him in the rat infested place they call home, afraid to leave him for dead in Darktown.

To her surprise, her father squeezes her hand back.

What can she do? She has no money, nothing to trade, no food, no water. Of course she can steal and thieve and swindle and barter, but not for the things that she needs. What she needs is medicine, and medicine doesn’t come cheap. And what if she leaves him and he isn’t there when she comes back? What if someone drags him off to be killed? What if he dies in the same place she’s left him? The thought of him dying without her around destroys her, but she can’t bring him with her. She can’t have him weighing her down.

Lana slinks back against the wall, half lying and half sitting up. She pulls her father close to her and hugs him. Under her breath, she sings a song her uncle once taught her when they lived on the outskirts of Crestwood. Her father had always loved that one. She sang it often when she was a little girl, getting ready for bed while her father went around blowing out all the candles and putting out the oil lamps. It had become their routine, their tradition, and sometimes her father would join in and hum along.

This is not one of those times. Lana’s father doesn’t even acknowledge her singing.

When she finishes her song, she runs her fingers through his fine, white hair. “I love you, da.” She feels a lump form in her throat. “I’m sorry. I love you so, so much.”

Three days pass and her father still breathes shallow breaths, hardly moving. He develops grotesque sores on his back and just above his bottom from constantly laying down. His clothes are saturated with urine and feces and the smell becomes overpowering. Lana still holds him tight against her, growing thinner by the day, hungrier and thirstier. Her clothes are sweat-stained and covered with dirt and mud, caked with blood that isn’t her’s, and they’re starting to chafe against her skin.

She wonders how she ever survived for so long with her father. She thinks of Ferelden, of the many cities and villages and town she’s lived in, and it seems like a different world. There, she always had an abandoned building to live in, a roof to sleep under, a table to eat meals at. There was always forests and plains nearby with game to hunt. And there were always small jobs to work in addition to her ‘side jobs’ as she called them. Lana had worked on farms, in inns and taverns, once at a forge before she decided the extreme heat didn’t suit her, and a few times she dueled for money, split with an older man who continually bet on her when she lived in Denerim.

Kirkwall is not Ferelden. There are no empty buildings to hide away in, and if there were, it would be a bloody job claiming it. She fears searching for a job because of her father’s rapidly declining health. Kirkwall is overcrowded with refugees, a base for criminals, and Lana regrets ever setting sail here.

But after the fourth day passes, things start to change. Lana knows she must do something. She leaves her father to sleep in Darktown, loitering herself in Hightown, pickpocketing and begging on the streets. Most people avert their eyes, or curse her, but Lana gets enough coin out of it. When her coin purse jingles loudly at her side, she buys food and beer and a sweet wine imported from Tevinter.

Weighed down with food and coin, Lana takes a few minutes to wander around the entirety of Hightown before returning back to her father. Her breath hitches at the thought of him, but if he’s survived this long, he will survive for a few more moments.

At the very center of Hightown, the Chantry towers over her. Lana looks hard at the long set of steps and considers climbing them. Chantries have always been disgusting places to Lana, as well as the people inside. Her uncle had taught her long ago that the Maker loves all of his children equally  —  humans, mages, elves, dwarves, qunari. But Lana has never been very religious. Of course there were times where she had gotten on her knees and prayed in desperation and helplessness.

Lana shields the sun from her eyes as she looks at the Chantry.  _ Maybe now is one of those times _ , she thinks. As much as she doesn’t want to go into the Chantry, her feet begin to carry her up the stairs and in no time at all, she’s at the top, right in front of the doors.

She opens them and walks in, the high, vaulted ceilings ominous. The enormity of the place makes Lana feel small and insignificant. As she continues forward, she cannot ignore the gigantic statue of Andraste, bronze and larger than any she’s ever seen. Lana examines the statue and looks at Andraste’s unseeing eyes.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Lana jumps. Just over her shoulder stands an older woman, but no Chantry worker by the looks of her. If Lana is being honest, she looks like a refugee, dirty and sweaty with tears and rips in her clothes. The woman seems to be the only person in the entire Chantry, it’s that quiet.

“I come here everyday to pray, and I never get tired of looking into Andraste’s face. I’m sure she was even more beautiful in life.”

“What do you pray for?” Lana asks.

The woman smiles weakly and steps closer to the statue, shoulder to shoulder with Lana. “I pray for a long life, a home, a hot meal every night instead of street rats.”

“And have your prayers been answered?”

“No,” the woman says, but she still smiles, looking into Lana’s eyes. “But the Maker works in mysterious ways. I should not give up faith, nor should I expect the Maker to give me everything I pray for. If He did, I would not be here.”

Lana nods and look away, unsure of what to say.

“I’ve seen you, child, sleeping on the streets of Darktown with that sickly father of yours,” the woman continues quietly. “If you’ve come to pray to the Maker for help, I will pray with you and for you. But if you’d like, I may have a quicker solution for you.”

“Can you help him?”

“Not me, no,” she replies. The woman looks around, checking to see if anyone is near enough to hear them. “Go to Lowtown with your father, child. There is a shop where you’ll find Lirene, near the Hanged Man. You will not be the only one searching her out, and there will be many who have already found her, but she will help you.”

Lana stares at the woman incredulously. “Thank you,” she whispers, near out of breath.

The woman smiles and pats her cheek. “Go, child. And best take care not to let anyone find out your father is a mage.”

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter?? so soon??? unheard of

Lana races back to Darktown, sweating and panting as she reaches the dank tunnels. She nearly barrels people over, running as fast as her legs will take her until she reaches her father. Lana screeches to a halt in front of him, throwing all of her things into her satchel and slipping her arms under his armpits. Her father jerks awake, looking frightened, eyes wide open  —  but only for a moment. He then allows his daughter to lift him to his feet and he wobbles slightly until his legs collapse underneath him. 

“Come on, da, you have to stand…” she pleads. “We’re going to get you some help.”

Her father doesn’t register this, it seems, as he makes no effort to help. So Lana, with her newfound strength, drags him down the uneven and dimly lit streets of Darktown, her heart hammering in her chest, pounding in her ears, her arms aching under the dead weight of her father.

Lana and her father get to Lowtown in no time. She doesn’t stop to take in the fresh air, doesn’t stop to look up at the sky and appreciate the sun and clouds. She heads straight for The Hanged Man, the center of town, and when she gets there, she realizes she doesn’t know where where Lirene is. Lana turns in circles, looking for some kind of hint. She looks for a sign hanging from a doorway before remembering she can’t read.

Outside of a row of buildings, Lana spies a family sitting in the shade, holding out their hands, looking for coin or food or anything. She shifts her father against her, grabbing him tighter, and pulls him over to the family, out of breath with a stitch in her side.

“Please,” she rasps, “do you know where I can find Lirene?”

“She’s inside,” the older woman says, jerking her head towards the nearest door. She looks expectantly at Lana, holding out her palm flat in front of her.

Lana purses her lips, but digs into her coin purse and gives the woman her last remaining silver. The woman smiles gratefully and tucks it away under her layers and layers of clothes. Ignoring her, Lana looks at her father with a smile of relief and walks up to the door of Lirene’s shop, stepping inside.

But at the sight of the shop, Lana’s smile fades quickly. It’s packed with people, smelling almost like Darktown  —  disease, sweat, blood, death. People are coughing into their hands and out into the open air, some are slouched against the walls, holding their stomachs, looking like corpses. Many of them are shouting to get Lirene’s attention at the other end of the building, squeezing together to get as close to her as possible.

“Those who need care  —  please! Please, you must wait your turns! I need everyone to leave their names with me and I promise you, help will be given!”

Lana can barely see Lirene overtop of all of the refugees. She’s a young woman, but haggard and sleep deprived. Her face is gaunt and there are dark bags underneath her eyes, and when she shouts at everyone, it’s as if she’s attempting to herd sheep. Lirene is pretty, Lana thinks, with dark hair that’s as tame as Lana’s is wild. Her thin eyebrows are knitted together as she stares down the refugees, trying to listen to their concerns, but growing frustrated.

She pushes her way to the front, past pregnant woman moaning in pain, men with broken arms and legs, children doubled over in pain. There are people with gashes in their foreheads, cuts in their abdomens  —  Lana can’t bear to look at them, trying only to think of her father. When she reaches the front counter, Lirene steps away, tending to her wares and trying to get away from the large group of people.

“Excuse me?” Lana calls, catching Lirene’s attention. “My father needs help.”

Lirene stops what she’s doing for a minute to look at Lana and her father. “Haven’t seen you two before,” she mutters, going about her business.

“No, we just docked a few nights ago,” Lana explains quickly. “My father, he’s been ill since we boarded ship, and he’s only getting worse.”

“And the templars let you in, did they?” Lirene seems surprised. “So either you have the coin, or the templars took a liking to you.”

“I didn’t pay to get in.”

“No, of course not,” Lirene smiles bitterly, then gives Lana a sad look. “What did they do to you?”

“Wh  —  What? No, no it’s not like that… they didn’t do anything to me.”

“I hope you’re not lying to me.” Lirene looks skeptical. “Do you see this place? Do you think you’re the only Fereldans here that need help?” she asks, her eyes tired. “I feel for you, child, but I have men coming in here with their entrails being held in by their hands, and women coming in with babes halfway out their wombs.”

“Please, you have to help him,” Lana continues, moving closer to Lirene. She can feel everyone watching her and can imagine the look of disgust on their faces. “My father will die if he doesn’t get help.”

“You want help, child?” Lirene huffs, walking into a side room and motioning for Lana to follow. The side room is worse than the main one  —  the sickest are in here, men and women with awful blisters and boils covering their faces, blood spilling from their noses, and one man who looks dead already. “Here’s my advice: go back to Ferelden. It’s the only place where you’ll get your father the help he truly needs.”

“I can’t go back,” Lana protests, glancing around nervously. “He won’t survive the trip back. He needs care now.”

“There is nothing for you here, child,” Lirene moves toward a shelf in the side room and grabs half-empty potion bottles, moldy bread, hard cheese. She moves around the room slowly, giving the sick their medicine and a little bit of food. “Unless you look forward to a life on the streets of Kirkwall, go live out the rest of your life in Ferelden.”

“He won’t make it.”

“Listen,” Lirene sighs, placing bread into the hands of a girl no older than Lana, “I cannot deny that your father is ill. More ill than most in this wretched building. But the donations aren’t coming in fast enough and I don’t have the money to buy medicine and food for everyone in here. And they know it. I have to be fair, and you came late. That donation money will be spent on those that came first  —  those whose babies need food, men whose wounds will fester quickly without medicine. I’m sorry, child.”

“There has to be something. I’ll do anything,” Lana begs, holding on tight to her father. Her father’s eyes are shut, and he takes slow, rattling breaths. She looks at Lirene with sad, sad eyes. “Please… he’s dying.”

“I’m one woman,” she frowns, turning to face Lana. “I want to help you, I really do, but I can’t turn a blind eye to all the others who’ve been here for far longer. Your father is an old man and you need to be realistic. Medicine is in high demand, but in short supply.”

“He’s all I’ve got,” Lana snaps. “I won’t let him die.”

Lirene takes a long look at Lana’s father. She lowers her arms and exhales deeply. She looks to be fighting with herself, some internal conflict that physically pains her. “Well… there may be someone,” she says softly. “Someone who has been good to us Fereldans. Someone who have given and given and never asked in return.”

“It’s true,” one of the women chimes in.

Lana, startled, looks at the woman who spoke. Her eyes are dark and heavy, her hair matted and tangled, oily near her scalp. She’s nothing but skin and bones, her skin waxy and stretched tight over her face.

Lirene crosses her arms again, raising her eyebrows.

“Just a little while ago  —  I haven’t been sick like this for long, you know  —  I had… spent some time at the Blooming Rose…”

Lana looks to Lirene for elaboration. Lirene speaks to Lana, but doesn’t take her eyes off the sick woman. “It’s a brothel.”

Lana narrows her eyes at the woman, half disgusted and half amused.

“For lack of a better word… yes, it’s a brothel,” the woman says shyly. “Regardless, the next morning I woke with a terrible rash and he cured it. He… did something… and gave me some medicine and the rash went away by the morning.”

“Who did?”

“Anders, child,” Lirene interrupts. “You seem like a nice girl, but I warn everyone  —  if you speak one word of him in the wrong company, many refugees will suffer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anders is a healer,” the woman adds. “I saw it with my own eyes. I saw him.”

Lana’s mouth parts open slightly as comprehension dawns on her. She turns slowly to Lirene. “He’s a mage?”

Lirene nods. “Please, child. Anders has been good to us.”

“How do I find him?” Lana asks.

“His clinic is in Darktown,” the woman says. “Look for the lit lantern and you’ll find him.”

Lana smiles, looking at her father, then to Lirene. Tears well in her eyes  — happy tears. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Supporting her father for just a quick moment with one arm, she digs into her coin pouch and pulls out the few bronze coins she has left. She holds them out for Lirene to take. Lirene smiles weakly and takes the coins from Lana’s hand. “Thank you, child.”

Lana brings her father back to Darktown, nerves jangling. She starts on the north side of Darktown, where she and her father had slept for the past few days. Avoiding the pile of bodies, she looks on every wall, hoping for some sign of the healer. Finally, she moves to the south side, and she notices there are far more refugees, however, they’re different.

While still malnourished and hungry and clearly dehydrated, these refugees don’t look at sick. They smile at Lana, nodding in acknowledgement, glancing quickly at her father. Seeing generally healthy refugees gives Lana a strong sense of hope and she pushes forward, butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

And finally, in the last spot she’s searched, she sees it. A closed door, barely held together and barely standing, and just above it is an oil lantern, lit. Lana hesitates outside the door and looks around. No one is around, no refugees, no merchants, no criminals, no one. Not a sound comes from inside, and it’s quieter in this area than the rest of Darktown.

“Da,” she says weakly, smiling wide at her father. He’s looking straight ahead, glossy eyes unseeing. “Da, this is it. You’re going to get help now.”

She pushes through the door and the sight shocks her.

Lana isn’t sure what she expected. Surely some old, frail healer, spotted hands trembling and balding on top, only a few wisps of white hair left. But this healer isn’t what she expects at all. He’s sitting beside an elven woman, fair-skinned and exhausted. A newborn babe suckles at her breast as the healer wipes blood away from its skin, wrapping it in a blanket. The father of the babe sits beside the woman, gently touching her arm and looking in awe at his new child.

There are a few other people inside, sleeping on makeshift cots. But the sudden entrance of Lana and her father surprise the young elven couple and the healer, and the healer stands at the sight of them, eyes flicking from Lana to her father and back again.

“My father…” she begins, but the healer is upon her before she can finish, wiping his dirty hands on a rag.

The healer holds his arms out to her father and Lana, not realizing how tired she is of carrying him, lets go. Her father falls into the healer’s arms, and while he’s looking Doyle over, Lana gets a good look at him.

The healer is young, probably a few years older than Lana, but still young. Short whiskers scatter his face and sharp jaw, darker than the dirty blonde hair on his head, pulled back into a half ponytail. Despite his age, there are streaks of gray in his hair, and his eyes  —  like so many refugees  —  look tired and heavy. He’s much taller than Lana, and hunches over to examine her father closely. She imagines him to be thin and quite lanky under his heavy overcoat and robes, but his thick neck and broad shoulders suggest otherwise.

She takes a look around the room, as well. Against the back wall, there are a few premade potions and poultices, accompanied by roots and leaves and herbs that even Lana isn’t familiar with. She sees the small area where Anders must sleep  —  his cot has a thin blanket bunched up on it, discolored and full of holes. Beside his cot is a pitcher of what Lana assumes is water, and a large bowl with a yellowed cloth. Hanging up are tattered clothes, two off-white tunics and breeches, and a second pair of boots sit in the corner. Stacked by his cot, clothes, and healing tools, are books  —  more than she can count. Some of their covers look almost brand new, while others are clearly worn and rotting. There’s a small partition between Anders’s area and the rest of the clinic, but it does little to give him privacy. The place is overall small and dimly lit like the rest of the tunnels, and despite the amount of sick that must enter the clinic, it doesn’t smell quite so bad.

“Are you listening?”

“What?” Lana had been so busy looking him over and observing her surroundings, she hadn’t heard him speak.

“How long has he been like this?”

Lana shrugs, thinking hard. “Maybe a week? He was like this since we boarded ship and… it hasn’t been this bad the whole time. The past few days I’ve be afraid he was… well…”

The healer helps her father to a table in the center of the room. With ease, he lifts Doyle in his arms and lays him down. The healers feels his forehead, touches his neck, presses his abdomen. Lana lingers, looking over his shoulder, almost standing on the backs of his feet, until the healer freezes, turning his head slowly.

“You’re making me nervous,” the healer says, not unkindly.

“Sorry,” Lana laughs nervously, taking a few steps back. “I just  — I’m worried about him.”

“He’s in good hands, I’ll take care of him. Why don’t you go have a drink?”

“I gave all my coin to Lirene after she mentioned you,” Lana admits. “I’d rather stay here. I don’t like leaving him by himself.”

The healer smiles at her. “Are you going to breathe down my neck the whole time?”

Lana throws him a weak smile back. “I’ll try not to.”

Anders doesn’t take long to examine her father, but in that time, Lana has already crept up behind him again. Anders puts a hand on her shoulder and gently pushes her backwards, chuckling as he stands tall and looks at her. “It seems like the plague to me  —  I’m sorry, there’s not really much I can do with magic. What he really needs is rest, lots of medicine, and a good meal in his belly.”

“But he’ll be all right?” Lana asks, breathless. She looks at her father, falling asleep on the table.

“Yes, he should be fine,” he replies, moving towards the potions he has lined up on a shelf. “It will take some time, though.”

Lana goes to her father and takes his hand in her’s. She gives it a squeeze and looks at Anders over her shoulder. “I don’t have any money or any food, I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I wish there was something I could  — ”

“Please, I don’t need your coin or anything,” Anders says with a toothy grin. “Your thanks is enough.”

“But you must want something in return.”

He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. “Just your thanks.”

“A favor, then,” Lana answers. “Once my father is better, you can ask of me anything you want.”

Anders seems amused. “All right,” he finally agrees. “A favor. I’ll have to think hard about it. Now, if you wouldn’t mind doing  _ me _ a favor… while I help your father, why don’t you go take a walk or something? Come back later tonight to see him. It’s just... I work much better without you breathing in my ear.”   
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just like bioware, i can't keep track of anders's timeline ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Free to roam the city without having to worry  _ too much _ about her father, Lana searches out a bathhouse and finds one within Lowtown. It’s a public one, which is much cause for hesitation, considering the sorts of people Lana has seen around the city. Inside are young and old, men and women, dirty and grimy and sweaty from the day’s events. Others walk around the bathhouse completely naked, smiling down at the bathers, rubbing their shoulders and sitting on their laps. When an elven man approaches Lana with a proposition that makes her cheeks flush, she pushes past him. She tries to find the most private area to bathe, but ends up having to share one with an old woman and her husband, who pay little attention to her and more attention to cleaning themselves. 

She bathes quickly, leaving the bathhouse as soon as possible with her skin rubbed raw and feeling quite clean for the first time in weeks. A woman selling perfumes even allows her to try her favorite scent, and Lana dabs it eagerly on her wrists and neck, smelling wonderfully like mint.

Kirkwall is larger than she could ever have imagined. She’s briefly reminded of Denerim, of the bustling streets and merchants setting up their wares in the center of town, the crowded taverns, laundry hanging outside of homes. Kirkwall is ever bigger than Denerim, and she feels like a child again, wide-eyed and excited. She knows that her father is in good hands  —  in a  _ mage’s _ hands nonetheless and in a place where templars refuse to patrol. Armed with this knowledge and a soaring heart, Lana smiles at everyone that looks at her. Even the templars that look at her receive a stiff smile from her.

Lana wanders the streets, exploring every alley and nook she can find. She loves the street food vendors the most, who are everywhere, the smell of freshly cooked food filling the air. While inexperienced in most cuisines outside of Ferelden, Lana basks in the scent of spices that she learns are from Rivain, and an old man cooks fish in front of her with a recipe he says he learned while in Antiva City. The street vendors are kind people, who willingly give extra food to Lana after commenting on her small stature.

She swipes a few coppers from some passerby and buys herself some flat bread and figs that are imported all the way from Tevinter, and a merchant gives her three brown bananas he no longer needs.

Her favorite merchant is an old Orlesian man who loads her satchel with pastries and bread, gives her some spiced wine, and tells her of his favorite plays he used to watch back home. He’s near as old as her father is, though three times as witty, with fair skin, a full head of white hair, and a clean shaven face. The man lets Lana sit on his stool behind his food cart, eating his food and drinking his wine.

“What brings you to Kirkwall?” she finally asks, genuinely curious, as she sips her spiced wine and watches some templars pass by. “It seems like you miss Orlais. Why would you leave?”

The man smiles, speaking with a light Orlesian accent. “I haven’t been to Orlais for quite some time,” he admits. “I lived in Amaranthine before I came here. Thought I’d escape the Blight before it swallowed me whole.”

Lana’s smile fades. She shrugs, swirling the wine in her cup. “I’ve never been to Amaranthine.”

“No? A beautiful city. An old city. I would go back, but I think I’ve grown to like Kirkwall. I can cook whatever food I want and people will eat it.” He laughs out loud a few moments after finishing, as if suddenly remembering a joke. “People in Amaranthine mock my Orlesian cuisine. They turn their noses up at the sight of it  —  at the sight of me.” He sounds angry, but when he looks at Lana, he’s smiling.

“No,” she replies with a small grin, “I can’t imagine they would be fond of you.”

Lana remembers Ferelden fondly, suddenly feeling wary and afraid. She looks briefly around the section of Lowtown she can see and feels a complete stranger. She misses Ferelden dearly already  —  the smells, the food, the dogs, the people, the cities. Ferelden is where she grew up, moving around more often than not, and all of her friends that she made along the way.

Memories wash over her suddenly. She remembers the elven boy she used to kiss under the large ash tree when she was a little girl playing on the outskirts of Highever, climbing trees and swimming in the lake naked with the other children in the village of Crestwood, running through the streets of Honnleath with a wooden sword. That was all before her uncle died, of course, and after he did, there hadn’t been much playing. After all, she was a woman after that, her father’s protector.

She had built her life in Ferelden, and being in Kirkwall is somewhat intimidating.  _ I’m alive _ , she thinks,  _ I made it into Kirkwall and my father is being healed and we’re safe _ . But despite that, she wants to weep. The Blight is over, weeks over now. She’s promised her father they weren’t going to go back, but with Kirkwall in shambles, overcrowded, and crawling with templars, maybe Ferelden is the best place for them. But she knows she cannot go anywhere with her father in the condition he is.

After she eats more food than she’s touched in days, maybe weeks, Lana makes her way to the Docks. She watches the merchant ships prepare to sail away, and watches the fishing ships dock. Flags blow in the wind with the heraldry of Starkhaven on near all of them. Large and burly men unload barrels of fresh fish, and Lana smells the salt water as they walk past her. People seem to pay her no mind and treat her almost as if she were a part of the surrounding walls. But Lana prefers it that way.

After a few hours, Lana’s skin begins to burn, so she takes refuge inside the Hanged Man again, which is quickly becoming her favorite place. Hidden amongst other refugees, criminals, and drunks, Lana enjoys sitting in the back corner, listening in on other conversations, sipping on her beer and forcing herself to enjoy it.

It’s easy to lose track of time in the Hanged Man. Men buy Lana drink after drink, offering her a seat at their table to dice or play card games, but Lana turns them all down. She likes it in her shadowy corner, and all the wine and beer is starting to make her head hurt.

Lana catches a glimpse of a red-orange sky outside when two men walk inside. One is a dwarf, red-brown hair pulled back out of his face, rings in his ears, a nose a bit too large for his face. What strikes her as odd is his lack of facial hair, but perhaps that’s the way Kirkwall dwarves prefer their faces. Over his shoulder, Lana can see part of the giant crossbow the dwarf carries, almost as tall as he is  —  the weapon is unlike Lana has ever seen. He gives some of the patrons warm and friendly smiles, giving her the impression he’s a regular. The dwarf’s eyes even sweep over Lana, and he nods politely at her when he catches her staring.

Behind him, a tall man struts into the tavern full of confidence, chest puffed out, shoulders back. The man is taller than Lana by at least a foot, his presence commanding, but his face looks soft. On his back is not a crossbow, but a large sword, bigger than anything Lana is able to lift. He doesn’t seem much older than Lana, and a coarse black beard covers his face, thinning above his upper lip. His hair is equally as dark  — shaggy, and combed over to one side to keep it out of his eyes. This man looks around suspiciously unlike his counterpart, and the two men take a seat near Lana, close enough for her to hear parts of their conversation.

They order their drinks and the dwarf speaks to his friend in a low voice, making sure he’s not speaking too loud.

“...that entrance I told you about? Turned out to be a bust. I guess it’s all caved in…”

“So what are you suggesting? I withdraw? I’ve already put too much money into this, but Bethany insisted…”

“And it’s a good thing she did,” the dwarf replies with a chuckle. “We could use you… we just need to find a different way.”

“And how long will it take?”

Lana sees the dwarf scrunch his nose, and then he smiles. “I’ve heard there’s a Grey Warden in the city… if anyone knows how to get into the Deep Roads, it’s him.”

“I still think it’s too early to go. The Blight just ended… it’s probably crawling with whatever darkspawn were forced to retreat.”

“On the contrary,” the dwarf says, thanking the serving girl for their drinks as she places them on the table. He waits until she walks away before continuing. “The Deep Roads are ripe for the picking. This is the best time to go, before more darkspawn are born… we’re running out of time. The Grey Warden is the best chance we have.”

“How do we find him? And when we find him, how do we know he’ll just willingly give up this secret entrance?”

As more people begin to look their way, the dwarf and his friend lower their voices so Lana can’t hear anymore of their conversation. She still watches them curiously, fingering the rim of her tankard, thinking hard.

It isn’t long until the man stands up and leaves quickly, attracting attention from all around the tavern. The dwarf stays behind, finishing his ale. Lana considers for a moment going to talk to him. From what she’s heard, it sounds like they’re preparing to loot the Deep Roads, and she’s heard the stories of ancient dwarven thaigs full of treasure, enough to make any man or woman rich beyond their dreams. And Lana can’t deny that she could use a little treasure.

Lana inhales deeply and downs the rest of her beer, slamming her tankard on the table and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stands and walks over to the dwarf’s table, who looks up at her with wide, surprised eyes. Lana seats herself across from him, where the man had just been sitting only a few moments ago.

The dwarf clears his throat and smiles at her. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“No,” she replies quickly. She rubs her pounding head. “No, I  —  I couldn’t help but to overhear your conversation.”

He laughs. “Seems like all of Kirkwall has heard of our plans,” he sighs contently, leaning back in his seat, his crossbow leaning against his thigh. “We’re always looking for donations  — ”

“I don’t have any money to donate to your expedition,” she retorts. “Take me with you.”

The dwarf sighs again, this time rubbing his face. “Look, kid,” he starts, “if we brought along every person who asked us to go without anything to offer, there wouldn’t be anyone left to live in Lowtown. I appreciate your interest, but maybe I could just buy you supper  — ?”

“I’m not just anyone,” she says. “I can fight. I’m good with my daggers, I swear, I’ve been training for years. I could really use a large amount of money right now.”

“Listen, I can’t  —  it’s not really my expedition to begin with. We still need the money to fund it and adding more people onto the team is just going to cost us more in the long run…”

“I know how business works,” Lana snaps. “I’m not asking for half your earnings, just something to live off of for a little while.”

“Kid,” the dwarf says again, seemingly exhausted. “I can’t do anything for you. I’m sorry. Here,” he slides a few coppers across the table, but Lana just looks down at them, fuming. “For your trouble.”

“For my trouble?” she repeats, sliding the coppers back to him. “I don’t need your pity or your charity.”

“No?” the dwarf laughs heartily, letting his coppers sit in between them. “There’s not a single person I know that wouldn’t accept money given to them.”

“I don’t want your money, dwarf.”

He stops laughing and looks at her carefully. “I’m going to regret this,” he replies finally. “Do you work well with others? I can get you work, but that  _ doesn’t  _ mean I’m saying yes to the Deep Roads thing. And take the money, damn you, or I’ll put it in your coin purse myself.”

* * *

Lana finds her way back to Anders’s clinic well after the sun goes down. By then, she’s stuffed, still a little drunk, and weighed down with coin and food in her pack. When she enters Darktown again, the smell of bodies hits her full in the face, but she holds her nose and walks quickly past them. Her long legs get her to the clinic fast enough and she opens the door, taking Anders by surprise, whose back is turned to her.

Anders nods at her father, who’s fast asleep. He’s the only patient in the clinic, and Anders washes his clothes in the wooden bucket by his bed, with tepid water, clad in a loose tunic and dark breeches. He scrubs at his overcoat furiously as Lana walks over to her father and kneels at his side.

She brushes a few stray hairs out of his face and is pleased to feel that his skin doesn’t burn hot as it was. Some color has regained in his cheeks. Lana presses her lips to her father’s temple, but he doesn’t wake.

“I don’t know how I could ever repay you,” Lana whispers to Anders. She looks at him over her shoulder and he stops his scrubbing, but doesn’t turn around to look at her. “I know you won’t take my money, so I won’t force you, but please  —  are you hungry? I have food. I’ve already eaten, and I have plenty.”

Anders wrings out his overcoat and hangs it on a thin cord that stretches from wall to wall of the clinic. He turns and walks slowly over to Lana, pulling up a stool to seat himself beside Lana. Anders looks at her curiously as she pulls some pastries out of her pack and hands him two  —  one lemon and one with pecans in it with a honey drizzle overtop.

“They’re good,” she tells him. “I ate about five.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Anders asks.

He doesn’t seem to be accusing her of something terrible, but Lana can’t think of what she had failed to mention to Anders that could have been of some import. She tries to think if there was a symptom she hadn’t mentioned and suddenly clings to her father, afraid that something had gone wrong. “Tell you what?” she hisses, squeezing her father’s hand. He stirs, but still doesn’t wake. “What happened to him?”

Anders smiles suddenly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to  —  nothing happened to him, I was just curious… why didn’t you tell me your father is a mage?”

Lana looks at him, dumbstruck. “How do you know that?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “He told me.”

“Oh,” Lana laughs nervously, looking down at her father again. That does make her nervous. “I don’t normally tell people that. It’s normally the very last thing I tell people.”

“I don’t want to pry, or be rude in any sense,” he continues slowly. Anders keeps his eyes trained on Lana the entire time, taking a few quick bites of his pastry before she has time to snatch them away again. “But… Maker, I don’t really know how to ask this, but…”

“Just say it.”

“Is there something wrong with your father? Or is it just the illness?”

Lana blushes, her cheeks a bright red.

At the sight of Lana looking extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed, Anders backtracks. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to offend you or your father, I was only… well, I was curious, I was a little caught off guard when he spoke to me  — ”

“He’s simple,” Lana sneers. There’s silence for a few moments as Anders digests this. “So, go on.”

He looks taken aback by her answer. “I’m sorry, go on what?”

“Aren’t you going to laugh at him? Everyone else does.”

“Why would I laugh at him? I  —  I don’t even know what to say, really. He’s been simple all his life?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, he’s never been caught by templars? Surely he hasn’t mastered use of his magic?”

“No.”

Anders is smiling again. “How did you do it? How have you kept him away from the Circle for so long?” he asks.

Lana licks her lips, unsure of what to say to him. Anders is not her friend, but he’s not a stranger. And he has done her a great service by healing her father and allowing him a spot in her clinic… She looks him up and down. He looks trustworthy enough, and Lana knows she could benefit from having a friend. She fights with herself for a minute or two before deciding to take a risk and trust him. “You have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone my father is a mage and you won’t tell anyone that he’s simple,” she answers. Anders nods eagerly and she looks at him with a frown. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, I’m not mocking you,” he scoffs. “I’m genuinely interested, but if you’d rather not tell me, by all means don’t. I’m just curious.”

“Do you promise?” she insists.

“Yes, I promise, I will keep your father’s secrets.”

“No one can know.”

“Do you think that I, an apostate, would just walk up to a templar and report your father? You’ve got me all wrong.”

Lana hesitates. “My uncle took care of him for a long time. He raised my father long before I was born  — ”

“Was your uncle a mage, too?”

Lana looks daggers at Anders. “If you’re going to interrupt me, I’m not going to tell you the story.”

Anders looks amused. “All right,” he holds his hands up in surrender. “Go on, then. I suppose I’ll save my questions for the end.”

“When I was born, my mother died, and my uncle raised me, as well. My father tried to be involved, but he’s never really had a sense of right or wrong, he’s always been quite awkward, and he wasn’t able to remember stories or songs like uncle could. He loves me, I know he does, but in his own way.

“My uncle tried to teach my father how to control his magic. We found that trying to suppress it in him only made it worse and my father continued to burn villagers and templars and our homes and anytime his emotions would flare, he’d be crying, a fire burning around him. And I’d know we’d have to leave wherever we were, as soon as possible. My uncle refused to let my father be found. I remember him constantly, always telling me, ‘don’t let them templars get you father’ and ‘keep him away from the Circle’.

“It wasn’t until I was older, maybe twelve or thirteen did I realize what was going on. I started seeing things I’d never seen before. My uncle’s daggers would have blood on them that I knew hadn’t been there the day before. The templar that would give me sweets everyday wasn’t standing in the same place. My uncle would have me tend his wounds, which I’d never been allowed to do anymore. He told me they were caused from hunting accidents, but I knew better.

“I was fifteen when uncle died. Quickly I learned what it meant to protect my father. ‘At all costs’ my uncle said before he died. Templars would come after us in the night, villagers would insist I send my father to the Circle, city guardsmen would demand something in return for keeping our secret  —  but always, I protected him. We moved anytime someone seemed to catch onto us, or when my father performed any kind of magic outside our home. We lived in the middle of the woods, in huts on the outskirts of towns, in city squares. And now we live here.”

Anders is quiet, unsure if she’s going to continue. Lana runs her fingers through her hair, staring down at her father.

“I’m not a good person,” she admits. “I’ve killed for my father, and I’ve done things that I wish I could forget and I’ve had things done to me that I wish I could forget. But I will never allow the Templars to touch my father, and I will not allow my father to go to the Circle.”

When Anders is sure she is finished, he can’t help but to blurt out a question it seems he’s been holding back the entire time. “And you? Are you a mage, as well?”

Lana smiles grimly, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders casually. “No.”

Anders nods slowly. “What is your name?”

“Lana.”

“Lana,” he repeats softly. Anders sighs deeply. “You have a friend in me, Lana. You are safe here. And I won’t let anyone come for you or your father.”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays!!!

Lana doesn’t remember going to sleep  —  she rarely ever does anymore. Paranoia overcomes her often, keeping her awake until her body betrays her and shuts down. She wakes with a start, sitting up against the grimy wall of Anders’s clinic, a thin blanket thrown over her, holding her father’s limp hand. He’s still fast asleep and Lana tries to determine what time it is, but without being able to see the sky, she can only guess. Lana looks over towards Anders and sees he’s awake, reading a little black book by the light of a single oil lamp.

There are two other people sleeping in the clinic. Lana spies a young boy with dark hair, snoring lightly. Next to him is an older man, well fed and weighing the cot down. Lana doesn’t remember them coming in and she wonders how long she slept and how deep of a sleep it was that she didn’t hear the ruckus.  

She lets go of her father’s hand and rolls her neck, which is stiff and painful. Her father stirs only briefly before becoming silent again. Lana listens to her father’s deep intakes of breath and the loud exhales, but it’s comforting. It’s a sign that he’s alive and getting better. His breath no longer comes in ragged gasps. She leans over and presses her lips to his temple, and smiles when she feels that his skin doesn’t burn her like fire.

It’s then that Anders realizes she’s awake. He sits up on his cot and marks his page in the book. Lana’s body aches. She sits against the wall quietly for a moment, and she and Anders look at each other with tired eyes. “Have a good rest?” he asks. “You sleep hard considering you’re propped up against a wall.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She sighs and rubs a hard knot in the back of her neck.

Anders places his book down beside his cot. “I could fix that for you.”

“Oh.” Lana shakes her head and lowers her arm, getting to her feet. “No, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

He smiles at her, watching her buckle her sword belt back around her waist, double checking that her daggers are still sheathed. Adjusting her cloak, she smooths her hair back out of her face, quickly braiding it so it falls over her shoulder, and stray pieces frame her face. Lana tightens tightens the laces on her boots and bends beside her father to kiss him one last time.

“Take care of him for me,” she whispers over her shoulder at Anders.

“Of course,” he replies.

Lana takes a step out of his clinic and shuts the door behind her. It must be morning, or close to sunrise, because Darktown is waking. Large rats are being cooked for breakfast, the smell not even close to covering up the chokedamp, which is strong today. Merchant begin to set up their stands, pitiful things, and men with dirty, near black faces call out to her, but Lana ignores them all.

Entering Lowtown is like being born again. Suddenly she can breathe, there’s a sky above her, one that looks slightly beautiful. The sun has just risen, and the sky is still pink and orange. The air smells of the day’s catch as food stalls are being prepared with ripe fruit and salt fish and bread. Her stomach growls at the thought of a sweet cake, maybe one with honey on it.

She continues through Lowtown, all the way to Hightown, the only place of the city that makes her incredibly uneasy. While the buildings are beautiful and completely together, and the Chantry looms tall against the city in all of its glory, Lana feels out of place and uncomfortable in Hightown. People barely look twice at her and they all wrinkle their noses when she passes them. Slightly used to the smell already, Lana realizes that she probably smells something awful and would knock an entire tavern out if she were to step foot in one. It’s for that reason that she seeks out a bathhouse before meeting anyone. Perhaps it’s better to make a good impression.

The bathhouse she enters in Hightown is nicer than the one in Lowtown, to say the least. She looks up at the vaulted ceilings and tall windows, drinking in the sight of a place that isn’t overrun with death and decay. Even the people in the long tubs are beautiful and happy and laughing, splashing and washing each other.

She can’t remember the last time she’d bathed two days in a row. Most of the time in Ferelden she’d smelled of drink and dirt and sweat and blood and, since everyone else smelled the same, it really didn’t matter much. But as she splashes water over her skin, she feels like a queen. She even flirts shamelessly with a muscular, shaggy haired whore from the nearby brothel, The Blooming Rose, but then she suddenly remembers what the woman at Lirene’s had said, and she quickly moves to a different bath.

Rejuvenated, Lana hurries to the tavern that the dwarf had requested he meet her at. Someplace that the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild had eyes and ears in, he told her, just in case someone unfriendly decided to come eavesdropping. That had been ominous enough, but when Lana steps through the door, she’s greeted by a blast of warm air, a cheerful song playing throughout the building.

This tavern is twice the size of the Hanged Man, the ceilings twice as tall, and serving girls swarm the place, already serving breakfast to hungry dwarves. There are a few humans present, sticking out like sore thumbs. Most of the dwarves have beards, however, so it’s easy enough for Lana to pick out the one she’s looking for  —  the only one in the tavern without a beard.

Beside him is his friend, the same one Lana had seen in the Hanged Man with him the night before. Lana approaches them both and sits down across from the human, beside the dwarf. Three tankards sit on the table, but instead of ale inside them, Lana notices it’s wine. When she sips it, it’s sweet.

She promises herself that she’ll be kinder to him today. The dwarf had fed her the night before, let her eat until she was ready to retch, let her drink until she was drunk and, after that, let her drink her fill of water. He promised to find her work that paid, work that would be easy. The least she could do was call him by his real name instead of ‘dwarf’.

“Glad you could make it,” Varric says with a smile, nodding at her.

The man is staring at her, his eyes scanning her face, her body, the daggers at her hips. He watches her closely as she drinks from her cup, long and deep. When she puts it back down on the table, she sneers. “What?” she snaps at him.

His eyes are a dark brown, almost black, and their gaze makes her uneasy, but she doesn’t let it show. His greatsword is propped against the wall, gleaming in the light from the braziers lit around the tavern. The man looks at Varric, scoffing. “This is the girl that wanted to come to the Deep Roads?” he laughs. “This malnourished pup?” He turns back to Lana. “You wouldn’t last an hour in the Deep Roads.”

“I’d last longer than you would,” she retorts. “I can fight.”

He smiles wide at her, laughing a deep, rich laugh. “You can fight? I thought you kept those daggers by your sides for decoration.”

“I’ll show you how well I can fight,” Lana says. “Take me with you to the Deep Roads and I’ll prove it.”

“What could you possibly be looking for in the Deep Roads?” he asks, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over her chest. “Riches? Glory? Your death?”

“It’s no matter to you.”

“It matters a little bit to me considering I’m going to be the one to decide if I’ll bring you or not.”

Lana clenches her jaw, looking at him for a long time. “I could use some gold,” she finally says. “For my father and me.”

“Where is your father?”

“In capable hands.”

“He’s ill?”

“I never said that.”

“If he wasn’t ill, you wouldn’t have left him in capable hands. Why didn’t you bring him here?”

“You’re asking me why I didn’t bring my father to some shady tavern to talk with some thugs?”

“Thugs?” the man asks with a chuckle. “That’s a bit harsh.”

“That’s enough, kids.” Varric finally interrupts them, his tankard already empty and his fingers digging into his temples. “Lana, this is Hawke. Hawke, Lana,” he says. “He’s a partner of ours, for this expedition that I already  _ told _ you I couldn’t get you involved in.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Hawke starts again. “I could bring you if I wanted,  _ Lana _ . However, I already have friends who’ve been promised eternal glory and lifelong riches. Friends who can defend themselves against darkspawn. So, sorry to say, you will not be coming.”

“Why am I here?” Lana hisses, looking to Varric. She half-stands, about to leave, already having had her fill of this man called Hawke. “And why did you bring  _ him _ ?”

“I wanted to let you know that I’ve found you work,” Varric replies. He waits for Lana to sit back down in her chair, and she does so, but reluctantly. She gives Hawke a sideways look, then tries to ignore him to listen to Varric. “Hawke has agreed to take you along on some jobs. You’ll split the gold between yourselves and some others.”

“You’re telling me, with all your  _ connections _ , the only jobs you can get me are working with him?” She points angrily towards Hawke, who frowns.

“You should be thankful that I’d consider this,” he hisses.

“I’d be thankful if you considered taking me to the Deep Roads.”

“I’m not doing that,” he says with a certain finality and Lana knows that nothing is going to change his mind. But that doesn’t mean that she won’t try.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” she argues.

“You’re right, I don’t. And I don’t care. I’ll see what you’re made of when we take a job.”

“Why did you come here to meet me if you were just going to be an arrogant ass?”

“Because Varric was very generous with his description of you,” Hawke answers with a brutal honesty. He takes a long draught from his tankard and drains it, slamming it down onto the table. “I was going to try and fuck you, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Hawke  — ” Varric starts, but Hawke cuts him off.

“Look at her, Varric, blushing like a little girl seeing a cock for the first time,” Hawke laughs out loud, tilting his head back and letting out a ‘ha!’ as he runs his hands through his hair. “I suppose if you’re willing — ”

“I’ll fuck you, but I want to go to the Deep Roads.”

Hawke stops laughing and raises his eyebrows, sharing a look with Varric. The dwarf shakes his head, clearly wanting to be anywhere but here. Hawke considers this a moment, considers Lana, and purses his lips. He rubs his chin, stroking his beard and trying to tame it with his fingers. He think hard for a good few minutes, leaving them all in silence. “No,” is his final answer after so long.

“ _ No _ ?” Lana repeats, incredulous. “What do you mean,  _ no _ ?”

“I can walk next door and find a whore prettier than you,” Hawke answers. “And she wouldn’t ask for anything but money at the end of it.” He smiles at her, pleased with himself, but his smile soon fades and he grows more serious. “You ask a great deal, Lana.”

“All I want is enough gold so my father will never have to be hungry again,” she sighs. “Where is the shame in that? If it were you in my place, wouldn’t you want the same thing? I know you’re Fereldan  —  I hear it in your voice. I know that you escaped the Blight, same as us. We both know this city doesn’t want us, but I can’t leave.”

Hawke licks his lips, looking at Varric once more. Varric shrugs his shoulders, suggesting they should talk it over in private, but Hawke ignores him. “I can’t promise anything about the Deep Roads,” he tells her. “But I’ll let you know when a job comes up. Where can I find you?”

Lana shakes her head. “No Deep Roads, no deal.”

“You would sacrifice your only chance at money just because I would take my own friends to the Deep Roads over you?”

“You’re not my only chance at money,” she says, standing up. She nods at Varric, giving him the smallest of smiles. “I appreciate you coming here to meet me.”

“One more thing, Lana.” Varric stands, but it makes no difference, as he doesn’t grow any taller on his feet. “Do you happen to know a Grey Warden?”

“No,” she shrugs. “And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.”

Discouraged by their meeting, Lana leaves the tavern sullen and glum. She thinks of her father, sick in Anders’s clinic, probably hungry and thirsty and sore. There would be other jobs in the city, other people to work for, right? Hawke couldn’t possibly be the only one. Maybe Varric would burst through the doors and chase her down and beg her to come back tomorrow to meet with someone kinder, someone with a heart and compassion, instead of Hawke. Hawke had humiliated her, and as she passes the Blooming Rose, her face turns bright red as she remembers what Hawke had said. It had seemed too easy  —  a quick fuck for gold that would last her years, maybe forever. Her heart had leapt at the thought, but his refusal only humiliated her further.

If she were in Ferelden, she may have walked through the door of a brothel, but not Kirkwall’s. Not after the story at Lirene’s about a rash, and she didn’t trust these Kirkwall people anyway. Ferelden people were so much easier to read, easier to understand. Blunt, straightforward, completely honest. All the people in Kirkwall seem eager for gossip and secrets, and that doesn’t agree with Lana.

She stares at the sign hanging above the door of the brothel, focusing on the wood that swings in the non-existent wind.

She remembers the first time she had visited some rundown brothel in Denerim. She had tried to go into the Pearl first, but the proprietar tossed her out as soon as she went in. Sixteen she was, tired and weary and hungry and craving wine, and she cursed the proprietar for kicking her out. She had kicked the shut door, pounded her fists upon it, until finally a guardsmen picked her up over his shoulder and carried her away, explaining with an exhausted sigh that she could try a different brothel back in the main part of the city.

She took the guard’s advice and went. The people were friendly and they served her delicious food  —  beef stew with onions and carrots —  and they had filled her with wine and ale until she swayed on her feet and vomited more than once. After she had stopped vomiting, she was escorted to the back by a lady who’d eaten with her that night.

That was where she met the elven boy. It was always elven boys. Humans were too mistrusting, too suspicious. But she always felt like the elves knew that her father was different, and just didn’t care. They were treated wrongly, too, subjected to alienages just because they were different.

He was handsome and so sure of himself, even when he undressed her and gave her sweet kisses, and when he laughed, it had been magic. He had only been a few years older than her, barely a man, but he loved her like one. Even now, she remembers exactly what he looks like. Long, thin ears that were half covered by curly brown hair, a mouthful of white teeth, a small and straight nose, big green eyes. He had been so beautiful.

They had met under the cover of darkness, night after night after night, always in the same alley. Always kissing against the grimy wall, always making love against it, always whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears afterwards. Always holding on tight to each other until he was needed back at the brothel and she was needed back at her home.

Then one night, the boy came to meet her again, and this time, it was different.

_ “You are so beautiful, my Lana,” he whispers. “I must be the luckiest man alive.” _

_ Lana can do nothing but smile, her legs turned to jelly beneath her. He kisses her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips. She laughs at each kiss, a giggle that reminds herself just how young she is. It makes the boy smile, though. _

_ “Let’s run away,” he breathes, lips grazing the exposed skin on her neck. “You and me, Lana. Let’s go somewhere far away and it’ll just be us forever.” _

_ “I’d love to, but _ _ — _ _ ” _

_ “But what?” he asks, resting his forehead against her own and sighing. She struggles with the words, but the boy cuts her off. “Marry me, Lana, and we can go wherever you want. Anywhere in the world.” _

_ Her heart races, pounding against her chest. All she wants in the world is here, all she wants in the world is peppering her face with kisses and his hands hold her protectively, his strong arms. All she wants is to be with him, forever, in a small village where no one could ever find them. But then she remembers her father, and how he would react if she were to leave. _

_ “Lana?” _

_ She sighs heavily and closes her eyes. Lana takes one of his hands, twining their fingers together and kissing his knuckles. “I want to marry you, but I can’t.” _

_ “Why not?” _

_ “You know I can’t leave my father. He needs me.” _

_ “Perhaps I could change your mind?” _

He couldn’t, though. He tried, with deep kisses on her neck, on her chest, in between her thighs. He tried to convince her with desperate love-making against the alley wall, with sweet words and empty promises. But he couldn’t convince her that way either.

She remembers how she had cried all the way home after that, all through the night, all through the next day when her father got so frustrated with himself that he started a fire that called the guards to attention, and in turn, the templars. She cried as she slashed them with her daggers, and cried as she dragged her father away from the city.

The door to the Blooming Rose opens suddenly, and a young, busty girl stumbles out, giggling. “Oh,” she says breathlessly, nearly running into Lana. Her tunic is crooked, her face flushed red, and her hair stands up at every angle, the back of her head a matted mess. “Sorry.”

Lana nods at her, giving her a thin smile as she walks by.

She’s not ready to go back to her father just yet. She knows that Anders will take care of him for a while, so she heads back down to Darktown. It’s more crowded than usual today, and she sprints past the growing pile of bodies, trying to avoid looking at any of their faces. When she finds a quiet niche that’s covered by shadow, she gets to the ground. Lana unbuckles her sword belt and takes her cloak off and lays it down, curling up on top of it and holding her sheathed daggers to her chest.

She falls asleep quickly, dreaming of a life with her elven boy, far away from Kirkwall, with enough money to their names that she never has to work another job again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for literally not updating in months :’(

After exploring all of Hightown’s niches and shadowy alleyways for days, Lana finds the perfect place to climb.

In between two ancient estates, the rock is rough enough for her to get a good grip, and she pulls herself up quickly, reaching the roof in record time. She’s always loved to climb—Redcliffe always had plenty of cliffs to climb, and Crestwood’s thick trees were always the best place to hide during games of hide-and-seek with the other children. None of them could ever climb so well as her, and she was always the last person to be found. The children would all be looking for her at the end, shouting her name, coaxing her back to the village. Lana had only swung from the branches with ease, only jumping down when there had been anger behind her friends’ voices.

Lana watches the noblemen and women saunter around Hightown from the rooftops, acting as if Kirkwall is a place of honor. They wear their fancy gowns and rich fabrics, acting as if Kirkwall isn’t a massive shithole, teeming with arrogance and superiority. There is no sense of community—this is a dog eat dog world, where people suffer—a world unlike any she’s ever known. Lana knows better than to take these people at their word—knows better than to trust their false and deceitful smiles. While Lowtown and Darktown are not much better, at least the thieves and killers there are honest about their intentions.

The sun beating down on the back of her exposed neck, Lana’s braid flops on her shoulder as she runs across the rooftops of Hightown on nimble and sure feet, stopping every so often to check on the people down below. A few Templars are harassing a family of refugees; a woman possibly ten years Lana’s senior pulls a cart full of silks and velvets and jewels through the crowded courtyard. A few merchants are trading expensive, imported food for fat sacks of money. Lana watches them closely. It’s difficult to steal food here—she’s been able to get enough, but not like she used to. There used to be farms everywhere in Ferelden, always stocked with fresh eggs. There’s no game around here, and Lana dares not leave the city to explore the surrounding wilderness—afraid to leave her father in a city of strangers, even with Anders.

“Hey! You, girl! Get down from there!”

Lana looks down at the city guards brandishing fists at her. She smiles, reminded of days running through Redcliffe, chased by exasperated guards. With surprising speed, Lana runs further along the rooftops, jumping short gaps between buildings, the guards following her on the ground. Unable to help herself, she laughs as the warm breeze hits her full in the face. Keeping an eye on the fastest guard, one with flaming red hair, Lana leaps a gap and lands lightly on her feet, launching herself over the side and climbing swiftly down the side of a handsome manor.

“Someone stop that girl!”

Looking over her shoulder at the guard calling for her, she barely has time to register what’s happening. She collides into someone’s chest and they both fall to the ground, rolling on top of each other, grunting. There’s a clatter of steel on stone, and for a moment Lana fears that her daggers have slid from their sheath. She scrambles up from the body she’s fallen onto, looking around for her blades, but they’re still secure at her hips.

“Lana?”

“Hawke, grab her!”

Hawke’s flat on his back, his greatsword lying a few feet away from him. His arms wrap around Lana, but she bites down on his forearm and he recoils in pain. Lana moves quickly, kneeling on his chest and pinning his wrists to the ground. Hawke looks up at her, breathing hard. As footsteps approach, Hawke pushes Lana off his chest and she lands flat on her back at the feet of a dark-haired woman.

“Hawke!” the guard shrieks, her voice wild.

Lunging at her, Hawke grabs her wrists with one hand and slams them against the ground, straddling her as the guards approach. Lana looks up at the sweating, red-haired guard that catches up to them. Two other young guards are at her heels, and they heave and pant, bending over to catch their breaths. Thinking quick, Lana rolls her hips hard against Hawke’s, squirming against him.

Hawke’s lips part at their contact, a slight, throaty groan coming from him, and his grip loosens for just an instant. Horrified, Lana feels him twitch beneath his trousers and it must come as a surprise to him, as well—Hawke gets to his knees, giving Lana enough room to pull her legs out from under him. Within seconds, Lana wraps her thighs around his neck, squeezing hard. “Let go!” she shouts, trying to pull her hands free.

“What did you do that for, Lana?” Hawke hisses, his face turning purple. He obliges, and Lana releases his neck, collapsing to the ground, breathing heavily. Hawke turns to the red-haired guard, shaking his head and gathering his sword back up. “Relax, Aveline. She’s fine.”

Aveline doesn’t look convinced. “She was running across the roofs like some common thief. What were you doing up there, girl?”

“I was watching,” Lana shoots back, clambering to her feet. Most of her hair has fallen from her braid, a few strands of dark curls framing her face. “I like it up there.”

“She’s fine, I said,” Hawke repeats, patting Lana hard on the back to brush some dirt off. She nearly stumbles forwards, giving Hawke a sharp look. He lowers his hand.

“Hawke, your word doesn’t carry much weight around Kirkwall,” Aveline replies cooly, her eyes fixing on Lana. Lana looks her over, sizes her up, eyes roving over her perfectly straight red hair and noticing the thickness of her arms. Freckles cover her pasty cheeks and the bridge of her nose. “You’re one of Hawke’s friends?”

“We aren’t friends,” Lana answers quickly. “We met at the tavern once.”

“I knew she was a whore,” one of the guardsmen says with a triumphant grunt. “Good with her legs. Whores are supposed to be good with their legs.”

“She ain’t a whore,” the other guardsmen snaps, motioning to Lana as if showing her off. “Ain’t no whore wears such pretty daggers, and whores don’t choke men out with their thighs, neither.”

“Stop calling her that,” Aveline says, giving both of the men a withering stare. Lana feels a surge of affection for this woman, Aveline. “Where did you come from, Lana?”

“I’m from Kirkwall.”

“Your accent has betrayed you,” Hawke snickers. He puts a large hand on Lana’s shoulder, but she shrugs it off. “Don’t be shy, Lana. We’re all refugees here. Aveline and I met before we even left.”

But Lana doesn’t say anything.

“Go on, then,” Aveline mutters, shaking her head. “Run along, Lana. Don’t let me catch you running on rooftops again.”

Aveline and the other guards turn away, walking back down the sunny streets of Hightown. Lana watches Aveline until she’s out of sight, and then turns back to Hawke and the dark-haired girl. “You didn’t have to do that,” Lana tells him, brushing her shoulders and arms off. She undoes the thin piece of midnight-blue ribbon in her hair—Anders had plenty of them in his clinic, wearing a different color with each different mood, he had told her. He’d then given her several different colored ribbons, but Lana is partial to the blue one. Her hair falls down to the middle of her back, the one thing she’s always liked about herself more than anything—her untamable nest of hair, dark and severely untidy, half-curly and half-wavy, the underside damp with sweat. “We were just having a bit of fun.”

“Aveline’s version of ‘fun’ likely isn’t the same as yours,” Hawke replies. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re a dirty fighter.”

“My blades aren’t my only weapons,” Lana retorts, looking down at her fingernails. “Us women learn that at a young age. Why shouldn’t I use what the Maker has given me?” Only yesterday she’d scrubbed herself clean at a bathhouse again, cleaned her fingernails. They’re caked with mud again, blackened with dirt. But dirt is better than blood, she thinks—Anders’s hands seem to be permanently stained red with the amount of sick and injured refugees that have been pouring into his clinic of late. It was the first thing she’d noticed about his hands while she watched him attempt to heal her father.

Lana had never seen healing magic before, and every time that Anders performed some—no matter how small—she was always in such awe, watching over his shoulder. He’d laugh whenever she’d inch too close, elbowing her aside to give him breathing room. If only her father had been given the knowledge of healing magic instead of destructive magic—fire and ice, freezing people when he’d get scared, burning them in a rage, and sometimes he never even realized he was doing it, and once he started, it was hard to get him to stop.

Hawke’s tone drips venom. “Yes, because the Maker has been _so_ generous with you.”

“Brother,” the dark-haired woman says gently, putting a hand on Hawke’s forearm. She’s smiling. “You should be nicer. She could have killed you with her thighs.”

Lana shrugs, raising her eyebrows innocently. Hawke grumbles, “My little sister, Bethany. Never quite learned how to hold her tongue.”

“A trait we share,” Bethany teases. Her voice is hardly more than a whisper, breathy and soothing. Lana looks her up and down, and her first thought is that they sort of look alike, but Bethany is far more beautiful than she has any right to be. They share the same dark hair, but Bethany’s is sleek and cared for, falling in loose waves and just brushing the tops of her shoulders. They share the same brown eyes, too, but while Lana’s have always been plain and dull, Bethany’s are full of life—a color brown that Lana’s never seen before. They even share the same height, but Bethany is curvier, bustier—the Maker _had_ been generous with Bethany.

Lana looks down at herself, in a tunic that’s stiff and smells like Darktown, her face covered in dirt. Her boots, the ones she’s had for a whole year, are starting to tear, a small hole in the top of her right one. The pale skin on her foot shows through. Even her trousers are stained from drink and food, blood and mud. She’s surprised Bethany doesn’t turn her nose up at the mere sight of Lana.

“Care to have a rematch, Lana?” Hawke asks, a mocking smile appearing on his face. “Say, first light three days from now?”

“Garrett, she’s only a girl—”

“With weapons?”

Hawke considers her. “Certainly not live steel,” he replies. “Even I’m not big enough a fool to suggest that. But I could ask Aveline what’s lying around the barracks. Never know—could be she’ll even care to make a wager.”

“Three days from now,” Lana repeats. “First light. Where should I meet you?”

“Just outside the city gates, there’s a forest. Head north for about a mile—there’s a clearing that’ll be perfect. Big enough for me to knock your senses back into you. And you know what?” Hawke grins, leaning into Lana. “If you win, I’ll even bring you on the next job with me.”

“And you’ll consider taking me to the Deep Roads?”

Hawke hesitates, but his smile doesn’t falter. He holds out a hand for Lana to shake. “Fine.”

* * *

Lana returns to Anders’s clinic after she bathes. It feels good to be dirty—to have mud between her toes, to have dirt beneath her fingernails, a little bit of mud on her face to block the heat. But now that she has access to bathing water, whenever she wants it, Lana begins to like the feeling of being clean, as well.

Her father is sitting up—a good sign. The past few days, the amount of poultices Anders had been giving him a day had started to decline, and when her father sees her, he hands Anders back an empty cup and holds his arms out to her. His cheeks are now flushed, making him look years younger. Lana goes to his side and hugs him, kissing his head over and over again.

Reaching into her bag, she pulls out a few things to eat. Lana breaks a lot of the sweets and bread and cheese into smaller pieces, allowing her father the biggest piece, taking one for herself and passing it to Anders—from there, the food is offered to the other patients, who thank them profusely and eat just as quickly as Lana.

“He looks good today,” Lana comments as Anders kneels at her father’s other side, savoring his pastry. Lana combs back her father’s hair and he smiles up endearingly at his daughter. “You look really good, da.”

He takes Lana’s hand in his and pats it. “My Lana.” Then, her father withdraws his hands, placing one upon Anders’s forearm. “Anders.”

“Has he been telling you stories again?” Lana smiles. Her father nods. “You’ve always been so fond of stories.” She turns to Anders. “Will he be well enough to leave in three days time?”

“What’s in three days time?” Anders asks suspiciously. He glances at Lana’s father, sharing a small smile with him. “He needs rest—as much as he can get. Perhaps if he had a few good meals and lots of fluids, he’d heal a little faster, and unfortunately my magic can’t help much in that area.”

“I want him to come watch me fight,” Lana tells him, and her father’s face brightens. “He used to watch me fight, when we needed money.”

Anders blinks at her in surprise. “I’m sure it will be a fight for the books, but I don’t think it’s something that’s worth overexerting your father. What are you fighting for anyway?”

“It’s fine,” Lana says quickly, frowning at him. “I’ll be able to get a job afterward.”

“Should I keep a cot reserved for you?”

“I won’t need one,” Lana replies boldly. “You can come and watch if you doubt me.”

“I have a clinic to run,” Anders sighs wearily, looking around at the clinic, half the cots filled by resting patients. “I’ll keep an eye on your father.”

Lana looks at her father, feeling his forehead. The fever seems to have broken. “You could close for half a day. Take a break. Don’t you deserve it? Besides, my father would love to have you there—between the two of us, we could definitely get him there.”

Anders gives her an exasperated look. “Only because I’ve grown rather fond of your father… I’ll think about it.” He gives Lana’s father a light pat on his shoulder, stands up, and walks away.

* * *

Three days later, before dawn breaks, Lana and Anders walk Doyle out of the city gates. She tries not to let her anxiety show as a group of Templars looks them over upon leaving, but she sees that Anders has tended at the sight of them as well. They pick up the pace, half dragging Lana’s father with them as they approach the forest.

The trees are narrow and tall—taller than those in Ferelden. The trees are cramped close together, but a path into the forest gives them room to walk without running into anything. Lana’s daggers hang at her hips, praying that Hawke will have seen sense. She knows she could win if she gets her daggers—warriors who wield swords such as Hawke’s are slow, and Lana has always been quick and stealthy, able to dodge heavy blows easily.

Hawke is already waiting for her when they find the clearing. Bethany is there, seated on a log off to the side, and Aveline is there too, on Bethany’s right, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere but here. On Bethany’s left is Varric the dwarf, smiling at Lana as she presents herself. Anders and her father sit on a log opposite Hawke’s friends.

“Wooden swords,” Hawke announces, picking up two of them from the ground. He smiles smugly. “Couldn’t find any wooden daggers—hope you’re able to wield it.”

He throws one of the swords at Lana’s feet and she picks it up. In truth, it is rather heavy, and she fears it’ll make her tire quickly. She looks up at the canopy above, sun filtering through the thin leaves, not quite bright enough to blind her if she’s facing the wrong direction. She looks down at the ground—it’s hard dirt that clouds at her feet with each step she takes, but she can slide her foot across it easily. Lana holds up the sword to examine it, trying to get a good grip on it.

“So,” Hawke continues, and Lana lowers her wooden sword, looking at him. “We’ve already established the terms of your victory—however small your chances are. But what if I win?”

“What do you want?” Lana asks, moving closer in the center of the clearing.

“You can warm my bed for a week,” Hawke suggests with a laugh and a shrug. “Unless you have anything else to offer me?”

Lana hears Bethany and Aveline groan at him. She flushes, hoping her father isn’t paying close attention to their conversation. “I’m not a common whore,” Lana hisses. “If you win, I’ll leave you alone. I won’t ever ask about the Deep Roads again.”

Hawke gives a bored sigh. “I suppose we can work out the details after I’ve won.” He holds up his sword, taking a few steps back from her and readying himself. “Let’s go, Lana. Yield when you’re ready.”

Lana holds up her sword, and the adrenaline that surges through her gives her the strength she needs to steady the sword.

Hawke lunges first. He takes the offensive, swinging his sword wildly and slowly, giving Lana plenty of time to block his blows—which are powerful and hurt her wrist—and she dances around him gracefully. When Hawke pauses to catch his breath for just a split second, Lana presses him, swiping at his knees, his shoulders, his sides. Her sword swats him on the back of the thighs, hard, and Hawke staggers, grunting.

Hawke lifts his arm to swing at her again, but Lana sidesteps and holds out her foot. Hawke’s shin catches on her boot and he falls forward, landing with a thud on the hard dirt. Lana jumps backwards a little as he clambers to his feet, spitting dirt from his mouth. “You cheat,” Hawke growls.

“We didn’t establish rules,” Lana fires back. “And I thought you knew that already.”

“No kicks between the legs.”

“I’ll agree to that.”

He lunges again, making to aim a blow near her chest, but at the last second he drops his sword and it catches her on the side of her leg, tripping her up. Lana cries out as the sword makes contact, and as Hawke swings his sword again, Lana’s gets him on his forearm. Hawke shouts and some birds rustle above them, flying away from the noise.

Hawke seems to move quicker then, his blows coming faster, but much less powerful. For a few moments, the only sounds are their grunts and heavy breathing, the clacking of wood on wood. As Lana swipes his sword away with her own, she aims a kick at his stomach. The wind knocked out of him, Hawke stumbles backwards and Lana jumps at the chance while he’s slightly dazed. She runs at him, ducking low to avoid the lazy, horizontal swing Hawke aims at her, hooking her leg around his own and bringing him down on his back, his sword falling from him hand. Lana falls on top of him, the wooden edge of her sword against his throat, and she pushes his sword out of reach.

“Yield,” she pants, feeling the sweat dripping down the sides of her face, off the tip of her nose. Her heart hammers inside her chest. “Yield, Hawke.”

And then, Hawke’s head crashes into her’s—her nose gushes blood down her front and her forehead is on fire and the forest is spinning around her. The sword falls from her own hand this time, and she hears everyone shouting around them—calling an end to it, shouting Hawke down. But Hawke doesn’t listen—or he can’t hear them.

“I shouldn’t have done that…” he mutters, as if from far away.

Both Lana and Hawke get to their feet, unsteady, stumbling towards each other without any weapons. And then, together, they grab each other’s tunics and fall back to the ground.

“Ow…” Lana moans, releasing Hawke to hold her hand to her forehead. “Oh—my nose—”

“Fuck…” Hawke gets to his hands and knees.

Lana continues to roll on the ground, barely able to stand, barely able to sit up. The forest isn’t spinning as badly, and she heaves herself to a sitting position. Just as she goes to stand, several things happen at once.

She hears the scraping of wood against the dirt, sees Hawke approach with the sword. He raises it high into the air and Lana hates him with everything she has—he’s going to strike her, to hurt her, all because he doesn’t know when to stop and someone cries out—a horrible cry, an anguished one—and then Hawke freezes, really, truly freezes, with his sword in midair.

Ice cracks at his feet, quickly cocooning his legs and torso—it encases his chest and shoulders and works its way up his arms. When it covers Hawke’s face, his eyes dart to Lana’s beneath it, and there’s an uproar at once.

“She’s a mage!” Aveline yells, pointing at Lana.

Varric chuckles. “Well, shit.”

“It’s not her!” Bethany says. “Look!”

“No!” Lana screams, horrified, and she gets quickly to her feet, her forehead throbbing painfully. She dives to her father, touching his hands, cold as the ice that has trapped Hawke. She lowers them, pleading with him, as Anders puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight. “Da, no—stop! _Stop it_!” Her last words ring throughout the forest, echoing for what seems like minutes. But her father obeys, stopping immediately, and the ice around Hawke disappears as quickly as it had arrived. Chest heaving, Lana turns back to the watching crowd, holding her father to her chest as he cries.

Bethany, Varric, Aveline, and Hawke are silent for a moment. And finally, completely out of breath, Hawke rasps, “What is this?”

“Please don’t hurt him!” Lana cries. “ _Please_! He doesn’t know what he’s doing! He can’t control it!”

“Then he should be in the Circle,” Aveline tells her seriously, but Hawke shushes her. Aveline turns her angry expression upon Hawke. “A mage who can’t control his own magic? At that age? That’s incredibly dangerous!”

“Please—he’s simple—he doesn’t understand—”

“Now you’re just asking for trouble,” Aveline retorts.

“Lana—” Anders whispers in her ear. “We need to go—”

Bethany takes a few careful steps forward, and Anders grabs Lana’s arm, trying to drag her away. “No, wait!” Bethany says, taking a few more steps. Lana pauses, and Anders lowers his hand from her arm. Bethany smiles at Lana’s father, holding out a hand. “Look.” Bethany gives her brother a hesitant look, then turns back to Lana and her father, holding out her hand with her palm facing up. Suddenly, a small flame of fire appears in her palm, and Lana looks Bethany in the face. “I can do magic too.”

Lana’s heart still races. All she tastes is blood, her lips soaked.

“We won’t tell anyone,” Bethany whispers to Lana’s father, smiling at him as if it’s their little secret. The flame disappears from her hand. “Garrett, when were you setting out for the Wounded Coast?”

Hawke narrows his eyes at his little sister. “Two days.”

Bethany stands up straight. “We’ll meet you in The Hanged Man at dawn in two days, Lana.”

* * *

Anders heals her broken nose, applies some paste to a bruise on her leg to help the swelling, and gives her a potion to ease the aching in her head. Lying on the cot beside her sleeping father, Lana sighs heavily. The clinic is empty now except for the two of them and Anders.

Lana watches him writing furiously in the corner of the room that he’s claimed as his own, an oil lamp emitting a dim, orange glow from the corner of the table. She feels bad intruding upon his privacy—she’s left her father in his care for almost two weeks now, and while Anders hasn’t complained or even passively mentioned their leaving, Lana can’t help but to suspect they’re now becoming a burden. It’s part of the reason she’d taken to sleeping outside of the clinic, as awful as it is. But her father has a bed to sleep on, and that’s all that matters to Lana.

She swings her legs over the side of the cot, meaning to rise to her feet. The cot creaks with each small movement, and Anders turns around so quickly it surprises Lana. “Where are you going?” he asks. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Lana buckled her sword belt back around her waist. “I appreciate everything, but I’m off to bed.”

“The clinic is empty, Lana, lie back down,” Anders says. “You can’t think I’d really let you leave in the middle of the night to go sleep on the streets of Darktown.”

She stammers for a moment, blushing bright red in the darkness. “I’m not going to sleep on the streets of Darktown!” she snarls, trying to keep her voice down. “If you must know, I have a place to sleep in—”

“No, you don’t,” Anders interrupts, his voice calm. “I’ve seen you sleeping out there at night. But you see why I was reluctant to bring it up to you?” He turns back around to his writing. “Your father could have left days ago, you know.”

“What?” Lana snaps.

“As if I’d send your father back out onto the streets when they’re plagued with Templars day and night,” Anders scoffs. “I told you, I’ve grown quite fond of your father. He’s more than welcome.”

Lana is quiet for a moment. “Thank you,” she finally says. “That’s very kind of you.”

Anders doesn’t say anything in return.

“Please don’t tell my father,” she asks, her voice quiet. “Please don’t tell him I’ve been sleeping on the streets.”

He turns back around in his chair, eyes studying her. “Are you willing to make a deal?”

Lana frowns. “What is it?”

“Your father can stay here—I don’t mind, truly,” he adds before Lana can protest. “And as long as there is a cot available, you can sleep here, as well. But for a price.”

Scrunching her nose, Lana has a feeling his terms will not please her. “Go on.”

“I’m not the—stealthiest or richest man in Kirkwall,” Anders tells her bluntly. “You’ve been a good girl bringing food back for me. You know I don’t charge my patients, and I think I’d almost forgotten the taste of food before you brought back all those wonderful sweetbreads.” He stands up and smiles at her.

“You want me to keep bringing you food and drink?”

“Would I be asking too much for some wine next time?”

Lana can’t help but laugh. She’d expected the worst, but this is nothing. “I’m sure I can get my hands on something.”

“Do we have a deal, Lana?”

“Yes,” Lana nods. “We have a deal.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited—sorry for any mistakes!!

“Your hair looks pretty today, Lana,” Bethany says with a smile as they set off at dawn from the city gates, following the winding path of the Wounded Coast.

Lana blushes, touching her hair, pulled back into a long, thick braid. She had scrubbed herself clean the evening before, until her skin was pink and rubbed raw and cleaner than she’d ever seen it. Lana had wanted Hawke and his friends to see that she was more than just a dirty thief that belonged to Darktown, and Anders had dragged a comb through her wet hair for nearly two hours until it was free of knots and tangles. Her father had tried, at first, but he was too gentle with her, and it would have taken hours to brush out her hair like that. So, with one hand firmly upon the top of her head, Anders had torn through the tangles, nearly breaking the brush at times. And then, she braided it just like Uncle used to, and tied it with a strip of red string.

She’d also brought back buckets upon buckets of water down to the clinic, and Lana had scrubbed her clothes as clean as possible, hoping to wash the stench of death and chokedamp out of the fabric. Her clothes definitely feel much more comfortable, if not still a bit damp, but the morning sun is sure to dry them.

Over her clothes are the sad excuses for armor she has—some leather bracers she’d pried off the arms of a dead refugee in Darktown, and a leather gorget that she’d bought off a hungry Fereldan in Lowtown, falling apart and bloodstained and leaving much of her collar still exposed. Her daggers, in their scabbards, are the nicest things on her person. Beside Varric and Bethany, who have no real need for real armor, Lana doesn’t feel as inadequate, but next to Hawke—who’s heavy armor is slightly impressive and very clean and will certainly give him protection—she feels ashamed of wearing such things.

Bethany has the grace to wait until they’re well away from Kirkwall’s gates before asking about Lana’s father. Lana is eternally grateful that Varric has taken Aveline’s place as their companion that day. Varric doesn’t seem at all bothered by the idea that Lana’s father is a mage, and Hawke—while wary—doesn’t interrupt or offer any smart comments while Lana and Bethany talk. He leads them on, Varric at his side, while the girls put some distance between them.

“Where have you left your father?” Bethany asks sweetly. Everything she does, she does it sweetly. Part of Lana is annoyed by that, but the other part of her is grateful she’s such a kind girl. Bethany is of an age with her—she must be very close to Lana’s age—but she also seems much older than Lana, who still feels half a child sometimes.

“He’s with a friend,” Lana answers. The breeze that comes off the murky water feels good against her face.

“Did your father fix your nose for you?”

Lana’s hand jumps to her nose, having forgotten it was ever broken to begin with. “Er—no, he doesn’t know any healing magic. One of the Circle mages did it for me.”

Bethany nods. She looks at Hawke, smiling. “He’s fond of you, you know,” she whispers, hooking her arm around Lana’s. Lana doesn’t shake her off, but tenses slightly. “All he does is talk about how arrogant you are, but that’s the thing—all he talks about is you ever since we ran into you in Hightown.”

Lana hums. Her eyes find the back of Hawke’s head, but he seems to feel her gaze. He looks over his shoulder and their eyes meet for a split second. “It’s not honorable to attack someone while their back is turned,” he calls to her before looking ahead again.

“He was cruel to me when we first met,” Lana tells Bethany. “He only came with Varric because he was going to try to fuck me.”

“Please!” Bethany laughs. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.”

“It’s true,” Lana snaps, finally shaking Bethany off her. “He said so.”

“I heard a very different story, Lana,” she admits carefully, eyes still upon her brother. “Garrett told me he’d offered you an opportunity to make money and you vehemently denied.” When Bethany sees the scowl on Lana’s face, she continues hastily. “I know Garrett can be abrasive and certainly crude at times, but he means well. And you shouldn’t have to worry about him telling anyone about your father. I’ve accidentally used magic on him loads of times and he’s mad for a day or two, but he always comes round.”

Lana doesn’t answer Bethany. She hadn’t been there to hear Hawke jeer at her, hadn’t heard the malice in his tone and bitter laughter. Instead, she shouts to Hawke’s back, “How much farther?”

“Just a bit,” Hawke laughs. “Are your child’s legs getting tired? Need me to carry you?”

“Have you forgotten what these child’s legs are capable of doing to you?” Lana snaps.

Varric cackles, looking over his shoulder at Lana curiously. “What?” he asks. “What have those legs done to our poor Hawke?”

“Nearly killed him,” Bethany answers happily. “He never saw it coming.”

Hawke stops suddenly, and Varric takes a few steps before realizing that Hawke isn’t at his side anymore. Hawke waits for Bethany and Lana to catch up, and Hawke falls in step beside Lana, Varric beside Bethany. “Have you been telling lies about me, little sister?” Hawke asks playfully—a tone that Lana’s never heard him speak with.

“Never,” Bethany answers, peering around Lana to look at Hawke. “Only stories from when you were a child. The embarrassing ones, of course.”

Hawke ignores his sister’s chuckles. “Tell us about this father of yours, my sweet Lana,” he begins, throwing an arm around her shoulder. Lana slips out from it, wanting to wrap her hands around his neck and throttle him. “I’m curious—has he really never been to the Circle? Bethany’s never been, either, and as long as I’m around, she never will go.”

“Why would you want to know about my father for?” Lana asks him sharply.

“Well, he froze me,” Hawke scoffs. “I deserve a few answers after that incident, don’t I?”

Lana scowls, but knows that Bethany would never allow Hawke to tell anyone about her father. “No, he’s never been to the Circle.”

“Who taught him how to use his magic?” Bethany asks.

Lana feels very put on the spot, looking around at her three companions and clearing her throat. “Uncle tried before he died, but da’s simple so he didn’t learn much.”

“Your uncle was a mage, as well?” Hawke says suddenly. “And you’re not?”

“No,” Lana answers, feeling much more at ease due to Hawke’s gentle and inquisitive tone. “I used to wish I was. Uncle used to do this trick—like you did, Bethany, with the fire. Said it was our little secret. I loved watching him do it.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, Lana, but—how did you get into Kirkwall?” Varric says, stroking his hairless chin. Lana considers him. “By the time Hawke got in, I’d heard they’d shut the gates to refugees. So either you must have had a generous amount of money or influence. Or is there some long lost family of yours in Kirkwall?”

“Never you mind how I got into Kirkwall,” Lana hisses, looking straight ahead.

“You fucked a Templar, didn’t you?”

Lana glares daggers at Hawke. She should have known his kindness wouldn’t last long. “I didn’t fuck a Templar. I wouldn’t. Why does it matter to you how I got into Kirkwall?”

“I could try to teach your father some magic, if you’d like,” Bethany says, easing the tension. “Basic things.”

Lana doesn’t want to be overly rude to Bethany, who’s been very kind to her, so she settles with a grumbled, “Maybe.” Though, if she wanted anyone to teach her father how to use his magic, Lana would rather ask Anders, someone she thinks her father would likely be more receptive to.

She’s very thankful when Hawke points ahead, where the road begins to rise, blocking the other side from view. Taking the lead, walking with long strides that cover the ground quickly, Hawke moves towards a few bushes and ducks down, urging his companions to follow. “Look,” he whispers in Lana’s ear as she kneels beside him. “Down there.”

“What have they done?” Lana asks in a hushed tone, peering through the bushes at a group of men down below. A campfire is blazing in the center of their makeshift camp, empty bottles littering the ground. Four men seem completely drunk, laughing loudly and singing crude songs, while the other three sit around a longsword, admiring and touching it, testing the sharpness of the edges.

Beside Lana, Varric fumbles with his crossbow. “Sowing discord,” he answers with a forced laugh. “They’ve been stealing from some friends of ours.”

Lana sits up straighter. “We’re going to attack them because they’ve been stealing?” Lana snorts, looking at Hawke again. “Should I be afraid to turn my back on you now?”

“We’re all thieves here in Kirkwall,” Hawke mutters. “Just don’t steal from our friends and you needn’t worry about us.” He turns to look at Lana in the face. “Come on, Lana. Time for you to prove I made the right decision in bringing you along.” Hawke grabs her by the back of her shirt and pushes her towards a narrow path leading down near the camp, and he follows her. “Only attack when we’ve done so first,” he tells Bethany and Varric, who nod and move closer together.

Lana draws her daggers, sliding down the steep hill almost silently and landing in a nearby bush. Hawke mimics her, and the noise of him landing in the bush draws some attention, being much heavier and bigger than Lana; the drunk men look up and around them.

“An animal,” one of them announces, his gaze falling again upon the campfire.

“Ain’t no animal,” another one says warily. He puts a hand down by his hip, his fingers closing around the hilt of his shortsword. “Who’s there?”

“You idiot!” Lana hisses, punching him in the arm. “You gave us away!”

Before the man has a chance to investigate the sound in the bush, however, Hawke charges, brandishing his greatsword, closely followed by Lana. From up above, a crossbow bolt shoots by Lana’s face and hits one of the drunken men squarely in the chest, and he falls to the ground with a faint moan. Hawke slashes and cuts at them, sending blood spraying everywhere, and Lana dances around the two sober men surrounding her. She uses the same technique she’d used against Hawke, tripping one of the men, but when he hits the ground, her dagger slides easily between his shoulder blades, and she tugs it out, jumping backwards.

The other man is on fire, his clothes burning, his screams echoing throughout the clearing. Another crossbow bolt whips past her, lodging itself into the man’s thigh, and he shrieks aloud for the Maker, eyes bulging, unsure to focus on his sizzling skin or his bleeding thigh. Lana kicks him in the stomach and he cries out, dropping to his knees, his arms flailing, trying to put the fire out. She swipes at him with one of her blades and the blood spills out of his chest, his eyes still wide with fear as he falls over.

It’s quiet then, and Lana looks over at Hawke. He’s bent over a large, locked chest, trying to open it. The men he’d been fighting are nearly split in two, their bodies stuck with multiple bolts, scorch marks on their armor and their hair dead and burnt. Lana pulls the crossbow bolt out of the man’s thigh, pulling hard, and then pulls the other out of the other man’s chest, tossing them on the ground.

“Let me,” Lana says to Hawke, sheathing her blades and leaping over to him. She pushes him out of the way, reaching down into her book and pulling out a tiny bag, untying it and pulling from it a lockpicking set. Lana fumbles with the chests’s lock for a moment before it clicks and she opens it, eyes widening at what’s inside. “Whoa.”

Inside are shiny gems that Lana’s never seen before, red and blue and green and purple—golden necklaces and rings with gems set in them. Half full of coins—gold and silver—Lana reaches a hand inside, if only to touch such riches; Hawke snaps the lid shut on her hands.

“Ouch!” she cries, pulling her hand back and looking down at her already bruising wrist. “What did you do that for?”

“It’s not ours,” Hawke says firmly as Bethany and Varric appear in the clearing. Varric collects the bolts Lana has taken out of the bodies and begins to work on pulling the others free. Bethany scrunches her nose and turns away from the dwarf. In her hand is a long staff, glowing bright blue at the very top, where a roughly carved, large stone is set. “We’ll bring this back, and then we’ll get our pay.”

“That’s not to say we can’t take a look around,” Varric adds, pulling a bolt from one man’s bicep with a grunt.

Lana examines each of the bodies, searching for equipment to use, that will protect her better than her leather armor. Everything is bulky and noisy, too heavy for someone of her stature, uncomfortable and sure to make her chafe. She leaves them be.

Bethany rummages through a nearby container, throwing empty bottles over her shoulder. She peeks inside the two tents as Hawke grabs one of the chests’s thick handles. “There’s nothing else here,” she sighs, returning to her brother’s side. “We should go back.”

“Lana, help me with this.”

Lana does as she’s told, grabbing the other end of the chest. Between the two of them, it’s rather light, and the hardest part is walking back up the hill with it in order to get back on the main road. After that, it’s a breeze, and Hawke walks in front, holding the chest behind his back, coins and jewels rattling temptaciously inside.

* * *

It is, in fact, a dwarf of the Merchant’s Guild in Kirkwall that the chest belongs to, and he does reward them handsomely, though Hawke complains (when they’re out of earshot) about not being given enough. Lana doesn’t complain, however. She stuffs her share of silver into her money purse and pats it, smiling.

“Celebratory drink, then?” Varric asks them as they make their way back to Lowtown. “First round is on me.”

As tempting as his offer is, Lana declines politely, knowing that the food stands will be closing down soon for the evening. She bids them goodbye outside The Hanged Man and turns to leave, but Hawke calls for her. “Lana—wait.”

Bethany and Varric leave them to speak alone, and Hawke approaches, his arms crossed over his chest, looking very intimidating. He waits for a few passing citizens to clear before speaking again.

“Perhaps I underestimated you,” he says in a low voice. “I owe you an apology. You fight well.”

“Is that your apology?” Lana asks, frowning.

Hawke grumbles under his breath and sighs. “I’m sorry.” He lowers his hands to his sides. “Look, if you find yourself in need of some work, come find Varric and he’ll let me know, or if you can track me down, I’ll find something for you.”

“Take me to the Deep Roads.”

There’s a heavy silence that falls over them as Hawke considers her. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve told you,” he answers, exasperated. “I’ve already decided who I’m taking with me. You came too late.”

Lana shakes her head, tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ears. “I need the money, Hawke.”

“You’re not the only one.” Hawke looks at her very seriously, and Lana wishes he’d hurry up and speak, as the sun continues to set around them, making th dirty and soiled ground and buildings of Lowtown look gold. “How did you get into Kirkwall?”

She clenches her jaw, wondering for the briefest moment if she should tell the truth or not. “A templar got us in,” she whispers, looking over her shoulders to make sure no one is listening. “He snuck us aboard a ship.”

Hawke doesn’t answer, but a crease appears between his eyebrows. He strokes the thick, dark beard on his face, looking pensive. “I don’t know what rundown village you’ve come from, Lana, but this isn’t Ferelden,” he tells her. “Everyone in this city expects something in return, including templars.”

“And what about you?” Lana snaps. “You expect something in return for being generous enough to bring me along?”

“I take care of my friends.”

“Is that what we are?”

“We could be.”

“Look, no offense,” Lana sighs, her hands on her hips. She gives Hawke a small smile. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m just looking for a way to make some easy money. The sooner I can leave this shithole, the better. You, of all people, know it isn’t safe for da here.”

Hawke laughs. “It is a shithole, isn’t it?”

They both chuckle until Lana takes a step back. “I have to go.”

“See you around, Lana.”

* * *

“A feast!”

Lana hands out skewers that have whole fish on them, blackened and charred and smelling delicious, their unseeing eyes popping; grapes and figs and juicy pears; sweetbreads and desserts of all kinds; ale to wash it all down with. And when her father and the three patients in the clinic eat their healthy portions of food with smiles on their sickly faces, Lana turns to Anders and reaches into her satchel, pulling from it a bottle of wine. He grins and takes it from her outstretched hands.

“Tevinter wine,” Anders muses, popping the cork and inhaling deeply. He gives the bottle a sad little smile. “I haven’t had wine this good for a long time.” Anders stands, walks over to his designated area, and returns with two cups. He fills them both generously.

The clinic is noisier than usual that night, the delicious food lifting everyone’s spirits. When the patients finish their food, Anders sends them home with two small vials of potion, and Lana’s father soon falls asleep. The bottle of wine is near gone, and Lana begins to savor each sip, not used to such rich alcohol. Her head is buzzing, but Anders seems to hold his alcohol well.

Lana helps him scrub the blankets clean by the light of his oil lamp that night, scrubbing the sick out of them until her entire hand begins to cramp.

“Thank you for caring for my da,” Lana whispers, nearly gagging at the feces stain on one of the blankets she picks up. “If this keeps up, I might have enough money to catch a ship back to Ferelden within a few months.”

Anders chuckles, taking the blanket from her and washing it himself. “You want to go back to Ferelden?”

“The Blight is over,” she replies, scrubbing at a particularly resilient stain of some dark matter. “Last I heard, they’re rebuilding. We could go back to Denerim.”

Without looking up from the blanket, he asks, “What’s in Denerim?”

Lana pauses, looking up at him. “It’s easy to go unnoticed in Denerim,” she says softly. “And—years ago—there was a boy. Sometimes I wonder, if I were to return, he’d remember…”

Anders watches her with a look of amusement, his eyebrow half-raised.

She blushes. “Sorry,” she adds quickly. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear my rambling about a lost love.”

“What happened to him?” Anders asks.

Lana laughs. “He wanted to run away with me. He wanted to marry me,” she frowns, glancing over her shoulder at her father, snoring peacefully on his cot. “And I couldn’t.”

“Because of your father.”

She nods. “I promised Uncle I’d take care of him,” she says. “Uncle took care of da for almost his whole life and trusted me to do it after he died. We’re all we have left.”

Anders looks at her furtively before washing the blanket again. “Was he handsome, at least? This boy of yours?”

Lana thinks of him, thinks of how beautiful his eyes were, his soft his skin had been. “The most handsome boy I’d ever seen,” she smiles. “I was sixteen—I didn’t know many boys.” There’s an awkward silence, and Lana blurts out, “He was a whore.”

She looks up into his face and they meet eyes. And then, they both laugh. Ander’s eyes crinkle and Lana’s cheeks hurts from smiling so wide, her laughter sounding very unfamiliar, very unlike her. But it feels so good that she can’t stop, and her laughing so hard makes Anders continue to laugh.

Lana’s father stirs, and they both look over, quieting. He rolls over onto his side, falling back asleep. With the ghost of their smiles still on their faces, Lana and Anders clean the rest of the blankets in silence.


End file.
